


A Heaven in Hell's Despair

by Namesonboats (Viken2592)



Series: Miserere [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Devil May Cry 5 Spoilers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Headcanons bonanza, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Smut, The author obviously needs Jesus, Vergil needs a hug, What is love? Baby don’t hurt me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-02-16 06:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18685972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viken2592/pseuds/Namesonboats
Summary: “We’re not doing it like this. Not - here.”The relief nearly floors her. She exhales the breath she unknowingly held.“So you admit you feel it too?”He roams her body with his gaze, eyes heavy-lidded.“I do.”Lady wakes from her entrapment inside Artemis with lingering feelings of anger and confusion. V accommodates her hurt through care. When Vergil later reemerges from hell after severing the roots of the Qliphoth, he is beset by V’s memories of her.





	1. The Lineaments of Gratified Desire

_I must sever_  
 _Sever these ties to you_  
 _Made by me_  
\- Hilary Woods, Sever, from the album Colt (2018)

 

The first time Lady encounters Vergil after Dante’s return, she finds him looming by the residential building at the corner of her street. Arms crossed, he leans against the tarnished plaster as if waiting for someone. A faint gust of wind teases the back-slicked tresses of his ashen hair.

She drops the pizza carton in her hands from sheer terror. Tomato sauce and melted cheese splatter over her black army boots.

He stiffens in a tight-lipped expression, eyes narrowed, and disappears.

*

On their next encounter, they fight.

Her heart firmly planted in her throat the whole time, her knees wobble from fear. She is a more than a decent demon hunter, knows her way with both firearms and melee weapons, but there is no way in hell she’ll ever be a match for Vergil Sparda.

He disarms her of the Kalina Ann with a slice from the Yamato, the blade cutting through her gloves. Miraculously, none of her fingers is severed. With a hard push, he slams her against the bricks of the derelict mansion where he caught up with her and grabs her by the throat.

She gasps. Her eyes tear up, barely registering the glacial burn in his glare.

“How," he hisses, the words slow like running lava, “can someone so human be so b-”

She doesn’t let him finish the sentence. With a forceful tap to the bend of his arm, she frees herself from his grip and thrusts the heel of her hand into his chest with all the might she has.

A rush of spite fills her at the sight of his surprised expression. Seizing the momentum, she does what every creature cornered by a stronger foe does. She runs.

She runs until her lungs burn and the stitch in her side threatens to dig a hole in her body.

*

On their third encounter, she is overcome by a stupefying realization: she isn’t dead yet.

Thrice in two weeks, she has met with the devil himself and not died.

_What the hell is going on?_

He fights her, always disarming her of the Kalina Ann. Dodging every attack from her bayonet and countering the bullets from her firearms, he fights with a liquid elegance. He rushes her with clips from the Yamato so fierce her teeth clatter when she counters the blows, at times falling on her behind.

Yet, she lives.

It is like they are caught in an unwilling pas-de-deux, a choreography controlled by a puppeteer.

“What the fuck are you _doing_ , Vergil?” She hisses, more to her self than to him, as she dodges another half-hearted blow from the Yamato. The blade hits a wooden beam and releases a shower of splinters behind them.

“Language, Mary.”

“Don’t you dare call me that!”

His usage of her dead name shocks her; she forgets to dodge another blow and the blade of his sword cuts into her shoulder. She wails out of anger more than pain; the cut isn’t deep. A patch of blood blooms on the ivory leather of her biker jacket.

He freezes, eyes wide.

Hand over the bleeding gash, she flees.

*

“I met Vergil.”

She curses internally at how her cheeks blaze. There is no logical reason to why she hasn’t told Dante about her clashes with his brother. Something holds her back. She can’t explain it, even to herself. It’s stupid.

She seizes the moment one night at the office when they are all gathered.

Dante lifts an icy glare from the paper on his desk.

“Where?”

“At the docks, by the old warehouses. I fought him, but he beat me, of course.”

“That’s how you got your injury?”

Lady nods at Trish. The patch of blood proved to be impossible to remove; a brick-coloured gash still rests on her jacket as a reminder of the event.

“What the hell is he up to?”

Leaning his rear against the desk, Nero sinks his head in a poor attempt to hide his angered blush. A needle pinch of compassion stings Lady’s heart.

One month has passed since Dante and Vergil emerged from the underworld after jointly severing the roots of the Qliphoth tree. Not once had Vergil attempted to contact his son.

 _Another deadbeat dad_ , Nico called him. Yeah.

“We didn’t exactly chat.”

“Well,” Dante taps his index finger against the polished veneer of the desk with a smirk, “I guess I’ll have to keep an eye out for him. Don’t worry, he’s too much of a gentleman to kill you. It’s me he’s after.”

Lady hums.

*

He approaches her the next night as she is on a gig by the ruins of the old airport, swooping down on her like a dark angel.

Surely the spark that erupts in her chest isn’t - anticipation?

In a fluid motion, she counters the blow from the Yamato and rolls to dodge another attack. Dust scatters from the ground in a ghost-like formation, illuminated by the milky light that spills from the windows of the hangar. A dove flies above their heads, the flap of its wings echoing in the dry air.

She parries another blow, teeth clenched. Position locked, they face each other. Pearls of sweat gather at her temples.

He smiles like a wolf that’s caught its prey.

“Mary, fruitlessly engaged in battle again. Why don’t you give up?”

“You’re the one who keeps stalking me,” she growls, “And I told you not to use that name!”

He presses her another step back.

“Right. Lady.” He eyes her in amusement. “So _petite_. I wonder if Dante had the bug in mind when he named you?”

 _Ass_.

“At least I don’t use a hedgehog as reference for my hairstyle.”

He blinks, taken aback.

Spiteful mirth bubbles in her. He cared about his looks. Oh, of course, he did; he was always on point with his stylish frock and that impossibly, well-tailored waistcoat, those leather pants that caresses his hips as if they were sewn onto his limbs...

She charges, roaring.

He catches her in a tight embrace, her back against his chest. The shing of the Yamato reverberates at her throat, its blue bands flowing in the wind.

She freezes, heart pounding in her chest.

His hand slides up the column of her neck. The leather of his driving glove strain against her skin.

“I want. To be free. From you.” He breathes into her ear, his words a strangled staccato.

A bead of sweat trickles down her temple. _What?_

She stiffens when the hand on her neck wanders to sneak under the collar of her shirt, caressing her clavicle. His lips graze the nape of her neck. It causes the skin on her arms to break out in goosebumps.

“I feel everything,” he hisses. “The taste of you. Your moans. The way you arched your back, eyebrows knitted in pleasure... It’s all imprinted in my mind like a tattoo.”

Her eyes widen.

V’s memories - they must have remained as he merged with Urizen. Everything they did -

It all dawns on her. Why he continues to seek her out. Why she can’t turn her head without him appearing in the crook of her eye. Why, despite clashing for weeks, he still hasn’t killed her.

Vergil lifts his hand and lightly squeezes her neck; she gasps. To her horror, a heavy, pulsating sensation settles between her legs.

“I also want to be free,” she croaks.

His arm stiffens; the Yamato sinks. She doesn’t dare to move, only cast a glance at him over her shoulder.

“Ever since he merged with Urizen, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. About you.”

He takes a step from her. She turns to catch his gaze.

“We need to stop this. This ridiculous dance, back and forth, like idiots.”

“Who are you calling an idiot?” He growls. Arms tensed, he lunges at her. She dodges the slice of his blade effortlessly, landing in a crouched position, hand on the ground.

“This. It’s ridiculous.” She slowly raises, shoulders squared. “You won’t kill me anymore than I’ll kill you. Not until -”

“Until?”

“Until we make it go away.”

“What are you talking about?” His jaw pulses.

She moves her hand back and forth in the air between them.

“This. You and I. This… tension.”

He exhales in a derisive sound through his nostrils. It irritates her beyond words, but her determination has taken over.

They can’t continue like this. If they act on their confusing feelings, brought to them by the brief existence of V, things must go back to normal - right?

She takes a few steps until she is close enough to have to tilt her head to look him in the eye. _Stupid, skyscraper demon…_

“You do know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” She does nothing to hide the urging tone in her voice.

He doesn’t answer. His chest heaves, a wrinkle creases the skin between his eyebrows.

Holding her breath, she lifts on her tiptoes, loops her arm around his neck, and kisses him.

Vergil freezes like a statue. The hems of his frock dances in the wind and flaps against her knees.

A few heartbeats pass. A creeping realization fills her.

_Why isn’t he kissing me back?_

She releases him and takes a step back, flushing. Her guts squirm in nauseating shame.

_Have I misunderstood this? Did I just force myself on him, like an idiot?_

His nostrils flare. Was that a tinge of pink that coloured the tips of his ears?

“We’re not doing it like this. Not - here.”

The relief nearly floors her. She exhales the breath she unknowingly held.

“So you admit you feel it too?”

He roams her body with his gaze, eyes heavy-lidded.

“I do.”

A torrent of heat blasts through her.

“How do you want us to do it then? I mean, we could just -”

“No. You are being purposely vulgar.”

He stares into her eyes for a few, awkward moments, jaw working.

“A dinner. I’ll pick you up tonight, at seven. Wear something nice.”

She scoffs.

“What, like a - date? Vergil...”

“I have standards. We are doing this my way. Seven o’clock.”

“But -”

With a few long strides, he is gone. She is left rooted to the spot, mouth open in bewilderment.

*

That night, she takes a hot shower and scrubs every corner of her body. Grabbing a razor, she shaves her legs and armpits. She meets her gaze in the misty reflection of the mirror.

 _This is ridiculous_.

She proceeds to shave her mons, leaving a trail of black hair like an exclamation mark on her sex. Short, coarse hair swirls in down the well of her shower. On top of her cabinet stands a flask of oil she once bought in a fit of vanity but has seldom used. She opens the cork. The scent of lilies of the valley fills the bathroom. With a firm hand, she smears the light oil on her body until her skin is soft like velvet.

She changes outfit several times until she settles for a deep blue dress that reaches above her knees. The garment reveals her form in a way that feels elegant - if that was something she thought she could be. It shows no cleavage but at the nape of her neck, the dress opens in a slit that reveals her skin down to her midriff.

Lastly, she dashes a layer of gold on her eyelids and takes a few strokes with the mascara brush. For the finishing touch, she applies red lipstick, the colour deep like blood.

At exactly seven pm, her doorbell buzzes.

She opens the door. A knot of anticipation, tinged with worry, tightens in her guts.

He stands before her like a piece of midnight, wearing a black suit and a black shirt, buttoned under an elegant, sable vest. His black trews reaches to dark patent leather shoes. There is something different about his hair. It is still slicked back, but less pointy. The tresses look less like the spikes of a greying porcupine and more like smooth lines on his head. A strand falls onto his forehead. She stifles an impulse to gently push it back.

The sight of him makes her mouth run dry. _Handsome devil_.

He opens his lips.

“You look… “

A low peal of laughter escapes her at the open, unabashed admiration in his gaze. _Vergil Sparda, speechless?_

“You don’t look so bad yoursel-”

Before she finishes the sentence, he steps forward and reaches for her. Her arms are lifted to wrap around his neck on their own volition. Her eyes flutter shut and her lips open to welcome his in a kiss so bruising it steals the air from her lungs. Because of her stilettos, she doesn’t have to crane her neck to reach him, but he still towers over her as he’s pressing her shoulder blades against the door. Dizzy, she inhales the scent of his warm skin, her knees buckling under her. The kiss continues and continues, he angles his head and slides his hand down her bare back. She never wants it to stop…

Until it does. She opens her eyes, heart thundering and lips swelling, and fails to stifle another laugh. His lips are smeared with red lipstick, his hair ruffled from her fingers. She imagines she looks equally dishevelled and readjusts the hem of her dress that has slid up all the way to reveal her lacy underwear.

“Wait. I’ll help you wipe that off.”

She steps into the apartment to get some Kleenex. He runs his hand through his hair and patiently lets her remove the smudge from his face.

“Will you put on more? On your lips?”

She halts, cheeks warming from the request.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

*

In the taxi, she glances at him. A small, red spot still rests near the cupid’s bow of his lips. She smiles and reaches with her hand to carefully wipe it off; he grabs her wrist and presses his lips to the veins that appear underneath her skin. The touch sends a bolt of fire through her, strong enough to make her gasp. He directs a burning gaze to her face, pulling her to him, but she recoils.

“I’m not redoing my makeup again.”

He snorts, a soft exhale through his nostrils, and lets go of her arm.

*

“Are you familiar with Scandinavian cuisine?”

She tears her gaze from the interior. He’s taken her to a restaurant in a district she seldom visits. It’s situated in a previously industrial area gentrified to a cultural spot, largely unaffected by the Qliphoth's roots. The interior is decorated with its industrial heritage in mind. The tables and chairs are made from corrugated steel, the walls of naked concrete. Shiny details such as luxurious leather sofas and bulbous lamps in a deep shade of green that reminds her of moss soften the rough basis of grey and rust. She would have described the place as dirty if it wasn’t so crisp; the clientele appears to her as equally cool, like taken from a fashion magazine. She flattens the hem of her dress with her palms, wishing she had worn something else than her usual biker jacket.

A light squeeze from his hand and a glint from his eyes taper her nervosity as a waiter directs them to a private cubicle.

“Not exactly. Please don’t tell me we’re going to eat something weird.”

“I was going to suggest smoked reindeer heart, but if you don’t wish to -”

“They eat Rudolf? I can’t believe it...”

“It’s no stranger than Australians eating kangaroo or the French eating frogs.”

“Euugh.” She smiles.

The crease between his eyebrows smoothens.

“You’ll like the Nordic cuisine, I promise. The chef won last year's Global Gastronomy Award. He runs two places in Stockholm and Copenhagen that are both featured in the White Guide - a guide that awards the finest restaurants in the north.”

She nodded, involuntarily piqued by the knowledge he possesses.

“How did you manage to get us a table? This place must have a waiting list longer than the Golden Gate.”

His icy gaze bore into hers.

“Because I have power. Power is to get what I want.”

Her heart does a small, pained jump. She swallows.

“Do you - enjoy food? Cooking, I mean.”

_Ugh. Smooth, Lady._

“No. I don’t... technically need food. And I grew up with a cook. How about you?”

Well, paint me in green and call me a cucumber, she thinks, I’m doing small talk with Vergil Sparda.

“Nah. I mostly eat pizza, ramen, Chinese takeaway, that stuff. Things I don’t have to prepare.”

“Well, in that case, you are in for a treat.” His eyes glint in a near indiscernible smile.

Her heart does another of its annoying, small cramps; she lifts the wineglass to her lips to veil the emotion. The crisp liquid caresses her throat like a newly sprung brook.

She opens her eyes, unaware she had closed them and meets his satisfied smile.

Their first meal arrives. The waiter introduces them to the dish; scallops cooked over burnt juniper and birch. The taste is nothing she like has experienced before; intense, bright.

She loves it.

They are served grilled asparagus with pickled chanterelles, and leaf-thin pieces of raw moose loin with a lingonberry relish. Slices of fresh salmon fermented in sugar and salt, served with tiny, buttery potatoes and a sauce of slick vinegar, fine ground mustard and dill, melt in her mouth. Each dish brings new taste sensations, making her exhale low moans. This was something else than the greasy pizza she orders at the Devil May Cry office. He barely tastes the dishes, his eyes deepening every time she reveals her pleasure.

“I feel like its a crime to put this in my mouth,” she whispers as they are served a new, beautifully styled dish. “They serve us with things that are more like works of art than food.”

“You’re the only work of art in this place.”

The comment has her lips falling apart, cheeks flushing. Were all half-demons this… suave? Did he spend his time in the underworld reading books on how to make a girl blush? She half wishes to ask him to stop, because this tenderness is messing with her brain.

“I do know how to cook one thing!” She blurts to kill the sudden, delicate atmosphere, “The perfect boiled egg.”

“Oh? Tell me how.”

“You put the egg in cold water and heat it up to the boiling point for three minutes. Then you take the saucepan from the plate and let the egg rest in the hot water for five to six minutes. Rinse in cold water. Ta-da! The perfect egg. Not too hard-boiled, not too runny.”

“I’m impressed. You’ll have to cook me an egg sometime.”

Her heart passes a beat. The request implies that they’ll dine again, perhaps eating breakfast together…

“Tell me something about yourself.”

Her mind stumbles.

“Like what?”

“What do you do when you are not killing demons..? Unsuccessfully, may I add.”

She kicks him under the table. He snorts.

“Not much. I - I play the guitar a bit. It helps on nights I can’t sleep…”

She shuts her mouth, not knowing if she regrets revealing her hobby or her insomnia the most.

“Will you play me a song?”

“What - right now?”

“We can leave if you wish.”

“Yes. No -” She bites her lower lip in a mischievous smile. “Let us order dessert first.”

He lets out a low chuckle and gives a signal to the waiter.

*

In the taxi, she slumps against the seat, satisfied and relaxed. The radio plays a soft tune. Her belly is pleasantly filled, and the wine, crisp and fresh, has left her light-headed. She has a sensation of sitting on a cloud. A mint pastille, complimentary from the restaurant, dissolves in her mouth and spreads a mild chill on her taste buds.

Vergil reaches out to graze the delicate skin on her wrist, up to the bend of her arm. She relishes in the tingles his fingers evoke.

A part of her wants to laugh - _the situation is absurd, what the hell is she doing_ , when a sudden wave of melancholy hits her straight in the guts.

This is the man that sided with her father to open the Teme-Ni-Gru. That put her inside that… thing.

If Dante and Trish saw them, they would hate her. A taste of bile rises in her throat.

“Are you ok?” His eyebrows furrow in an attentive expression.

“Yes,” she swallows. “Can we walk? I’d like to get some air.”

He orders the taxi to stop and pays the driver the required amount before stepping out, opening the door for her.

She accepts his arm for leverage. Her heels click against the pavement. The wet asphalt mirrors the street lights above and illuminates their passing silhouettes in shades of green and pink.

The air runs cool through her lungs. It helps disperse her nausea.

“You shouldn’t live in this area of town,” he grumbles, “it’s not safe.”

She arches an eyebrow at him.

“Please. I can take care of myself.”

He flicks a gaze to her.

“I know, I -”

“It’s fine. I like it here.”

 _It’s what I can afford_. She steps over the spill of a rundown garbage can, ignoring the squeak of a startled rat. Before the whole ordeal with the Qliphoth, business wasn’t splendid. The office was out of gas and electricity on most days of the week. Although things had changed with remaining demons needing to be weeded out, she wasn’t exactly wading in clover.

They pass the graffiti-covered walls of her building and reach the gates. She takes out her keys and inserts them in the lock, struck by the realization of how _intimate_ it is to show him her apartment. When was the last time she invited anyone home - ever? Although she spent the bulk of the afternoon scrubbing and cleaning the place, a jolt of nervousness burn in her guts. _What is he going to think?_

 _Oh, who cares_ , she spits in her mind as they step into the rickety elevator. The metallic screech of the gate ring in her ear as they begin their ascent to her floor. _We’re doing this, once, and then I’m free from him_.

A voice in her head whispers that a flame can’t be extinguished by feeding it fuel, but she orders it quiet. She meets his gaze, latching into hers like shards of ice. All thought is drowned as they reach for each other, her body melting into his.

Kissing, they stumble into the corridor to her flat. He closes the bar to the elevator with a bang and lets his hand return to the small of her back. Breath caught in her lungs, she fishes out her keys from her pocket but is unable to insert them into the lock. Her hands tremble like an aspen leaf.

“Allow me.”

He grabs the keys and opens the lock with a click. With a strong arm looped around her midriff, he lifts her, feet dangling above the floor, and carries her inside. Their mouths continue to taste each other. Her head spins from the sensation of his lips prodding hers, the way the tips of their tongues meet in perfect sync. They are rehearsing a rhythm they have perfected into a virtuoso.

Well inside, he lowers her to the floor. She unlocks her arms around his neck, heat blooming on her face and breath short in her lungs.

“I have to -” there are polite expressions for what she needs to do, but her brain has transformed into pancake batter, “- um,”

He releases her with a near indiscernible nod. Legs wobbly, she takes the steps needed to reach her bathroom and closes the door behind her. Facing her reflection in the mirror, she presses her fingers to her temples.

_Pull it together, Lady._

Before she returns, she wipes the remains of her lipstick from her chin and applies a few dabs of chapstick to her lips. A fruity taste slips into her mouth.

Adjusting her hair, she steps out into the apartment.

He stands by her bookshelf, inspecting a cd-case, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He has managed to wipe the red smudges off his face himself this time.

A small laugh of embarrassment escapes her.

He directs his gaze to her and tilts the case in his hand in her direction.

“Leonard Cohen?”

“They’re my mom’s.”

“You don’t listen to him?”

“Yeah, I do, I’m just not as much of a crazy fan as she was.”

“Which song is your favourite?”

She swallows.

“ _Waiting for the miracle_.”

He smiles that sly smile that sends a twinge through her heart every time he does it.

“ _Let’s do something crazy, something absolutely wrong, while we’re waiting, waiting for the miracle to come..._ ”

She holds her breath. His voice - the velvet tone...

“Did you know that song was in Natural Born Killers?”

She smiles.

“I love that movie!”

Pointing her index fingers at her hips, she holds her hands like guns in a Mallory Knox act.

“ _You made my… shit list!_ ”

He snorts and shakes his head.

“I thought you might.”

The cd-case is slipped back onto the shelf with the others.

He continues to peruse her collection of books, letting one slide out from its position pressed between old paperbacks.

“Why, I didn’t know you were a romantic.”

He holds a copy of Romeo of Juliet with an expression of wicked mirth written on his face.

She blushes and steps forward to snatch it from his hands, but he lifts it out of reach.

“So worn! You’ve read this many times, I can tell.”

_Impossible, frustrating, half-demon, half-ass man..._

She stills when he opens it and reads aloud.

“ _A snowy dove trooping with crows, as yonder lady o’er her fellows shows_.”

She lowers her hands and plants them on his shoulders, hiding her radish-coloured face between her arms.

“Jerk.”

He exhales in a jovial sound, places the copy of Romeo and Juliet back into the shelf, and let his hands wander down her arms in a long stroke. It sends a pleasant shiver down her spine.

“You said you’d play me a song.”

She lifts her head, surprised. _Oh, right_.

“Are you sure? It’s not like I’m - good at it, or anything…”

“Yes.”

“Ok.”

Filled with a sensation of her feet barely touching the floor, she strides over to her sofa. The maroon corduroy dents from her knee as she reaches to unhook her Spanish Epiphone guitar from the wall. The pearl curtain that hangs on the doorframe to her kitchenette, forming a pattern of the Mona Lisa, clink as she brushes against it.

He sits on her dingy armchair by the window. The light from her three-armed lamp surrounds his frame in an amber halo.

Sitting on her living table, she adjusts the body of the guitar on her thigh.

“I wrote this song a few weeks ago.”

“What is it called?”

He scrutinizes her with a calm gaze, elbows resting on his knees.

“It doesn’t have a name yet.”

She tunes the nylon strings and plays, aware of his gaze yet devoid of shame or embarrassment. She has nothing to lose by exposing herself to him. It is an oddly comforting feeling.

She sings V’s words, on that last night they spent together, asking her to lie beside him, on his arm. All was coming to an end, his time, running out.

She sings of the changing air, and of his wish to be free.

 _Baby, won’t you lie here_  
 _with me?_ _Until the rising sun._  
 _Lie with me_  
 _though I long to be free._

The last note plays out, resonating in the air. The silence that envelops them is full of the words sung.

He rises from his seat, steps forwards and takes the guitar from her. She accepts his hands that pull her to her feet.

“Lady, if you don’t want to do this…”

She squeezes his hands, pinning him with her gaze.

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from A Question Answered by William Blake.
> 
> Lady having her own apartment is canon divergent.
> 
> The song Lady sings is the track "Kith" by Hilary Woods, from the album Colt (2018).


	2. In anguish dividing and dividing, for pity divides the soul

_So take me home to you_  
 _I feel so far away_  
 _Take me home to all I knew_  
\- Hilary Woods, Inhaler, from the album Colt (2018)

 

May 16th.  
 _You and I will never part._

May 28th.  
 _You need me._

June 10th.  
 _No one has ever cared for you the way I do._

 

June 16th.

She wakes, her naked back against the jagged leather of a sofa, her front covered in a rough blanket. Her eyesight blurs. She turns her head to blink into the interior of a van. It’s large as a tour bus, complete with a cubicle space she assumes is a toilet and a shower facility. A cigarette pack and an espresso cup lay on a foldable table to her right. Beside it, a - jukebox?

Facing her, on top of an outmoded stove, stands an espresso maker spreading a pleasant aroma. A yellow lamp with hanging red bands dangles above her feet, emitting a soft light. Lifting her back to cast a gaze further, she finds the back of the van has been reworked to a tiny workshop.

She is overcome by a single sensation.

Relief.

Euphoric relief! Her limbs are hers, free.

“You’re awake!”

Lady jumps from surprise and darts her gaze to the person speaking behind her. From the driving seat peeks the face a young woman, freckled and with a pair of red glasses. Her frizzy, brown hair is drawn back by a braided headband.

“You’re Lady, right? I know ‘cuz I know about Dante’s business. I’m Nico!”

The girl steps forward and extends a hand, smiling with glittering eyes.

“It’s short for Nicoletta.”

Lady sits, taking the girl’s hand, nausea churning her guts. The worst headache since that time back in uni when she downed an entire bottle of vodka grinds her skull.

“How did I get here?”

Nico sits by the foldable table. The floor clinks from the heels of her cowboy boots. She wears a sleeveless leather top, showing several tattoos on her body, one picturing hands in prayer on her left arm. Her jean shorts are covered by a leather belt supporting a tool bag.

“Nero sliced you outta that demon. He was kinda shy about you being naked, said Kyrie - that’s his girlfriend - was going to kill him. So, I wrapped you in that blanket and took you to the van to clean you up.”

Lady frowns. What kind of person would be mad at their boyfriend for seeing someone naked as a consequence of saving their life?

“Nero..? The Order of the Sword guy that Dante fought with a few years ago?”

“Yeah, or nah, Nero’s not in the order anymore, he’s got his own business now, with me as his partner!”

Nico grins.

The image of a white-haired person, running into the throne room of Urizen after she, Trish and Dante were defeated, flashes in Lady’s memory. He wasn’t alone; V was with him. They must have found a way to escape and not end up like her and Trish…

_Trish. We have to go after her. Dante… God, what happened to him?_

“You mind if I smoke?”

Lady shakes her head, despite wishing Nico wouldn’t. It was her van, after all, that much was clear.

“Is he ok?” Lady shudders. To her understanding, Nero was an inexperienced demon hunter, and young. It must have been a tough fight.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s good at kicking demon ass!” Nico smiles and exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Mostly because of the Devil Breakers I tinker for him! I got this _ama-zing_ piece of the demon that held you, I’m gonna use it to make the most awesome…”

Her agitated rambling halts. The excitement in her eyes is replaced by a spark of pity.

“Sorry. Bet you don’t wanna hear about that asshole anymore, huh? Must have been a real nightmare.”

The blood rushes from Lady’s head. A cold sweat breaks out on her forehead and plasters her hair against her temples.

Nico puts out her cigarette into the black dregs of an espresso cup.

“Hey. You’re free now. You’ll be alright.”

Nodding, Lady swallows the lump in her throat. Tears burn behind her lids.

Chest burning with hate, she vows to never lose self-control again.

A screech of crumbling metal, followed by a loud, deep crash, causes the van to shake. Lady jerks her head with a gasp. Outside the front window, a great cloud of dust erupts to tower over a few, derelict residential buildings.

“What’s happening?”

Nico climbs up the seat to take the steering wheel with a satisfied smile.

“That’s Nero, taking down that huge son of a bitch scrap demon over there! Best get going.”

*

Nero _is_ young; Lady guesses no more than twenty, twenty-one, which means he must have been just a kid when Dante fought with him last. She tries not to gawk at the prosthetic attached to his severed arm, a blue, steel glove that emits a faint metallic wheeze when he moves it. He asks how she is, doing his best to be considerate, but the frustration radiates from him.

“Dante. What happened to him? And Trish? Did they end up like you?”

Lady turns her gaze inwards. The thought of her friends sends a burning arrow through her heart.

“Trish, she… She was captured. I remember that.”

She shakes her head, chest burning from shame. They were so confident they would beat Urizen. She and Trish even bickered about who would get to deal the first blow, racing each other to the throne room… Pride comes before a fall.

“But I don’t know what happened to Dante.”

“Dammit.”

Nero stands up, clenching his devil bringer to a fist. It crackles in a faint blue light.

Lady is pushed from her inwardness by a faint gust of wind. V opens the door and steps in. A bright ray of light forms a triangle on the floor of the van. His demon bird appears in a gush of black sparks on top of the jukebox.

For some reason, the sight of their raven-haired client makes her stiffen.

“You can’t travel through here in a car.”

The velvety note to his voice reminds her of smoke.

“Yeah, we know,” Nero replies, “we’re just waiting on you. There’s only one way up that tree. Hang on, I’ll get ready.”

He steps into the workshop, rummaging his stacks of devil bringers.

Skin still crawling from the unwanted memory of confinement in flesh, Lady rolls her shoulders and shifts on the seat of the sofa.

V sits in the entrance to the van, turning to her in a slight movement but not meeting her eyes.

“I’m glad to see you look so well.”

She stifles a frown. What an awkward thing to say. But then again, he is no ordinary person.

When V a month earlier followed her, Trish and Dante into the root system of the Qliphoth, she glanced at him sideways. She couldn't pinpoint whether he was human or - something else. His demon bird followed him, exhaling occasional hoarse cackles.

The guy reminded her of every asshole she dated back in high school. It was a time of listening too much to Bright Eyes, smoking too many Lucky Strikes, and wearing that green bomber jacket her mother hated. Too many nights had she fallen asleep on some tattooed boy’s arm, trying to ignore the hole inside her from yet another absent call from her father on yet another lonely birthday.

V paid well in advance for the gig, but that was secondary. The emergence of Urizen and the Qliphoth threatened to transform Red Grave to nothing but a pile of bloodied rubble; they had to act.

Could he be trusted? She has no grasp of him.

“You too, I guess.”

V extends his hand over his shoulders, holding a metallic, shimmering piece that looks like a severed claw.

“I found these. If they’re any use to you, they’re yours.”

“Wow!” Nico snatches the piece from him, eyes shining from amazement. “I can make something _truly awesome_ out of this.”

Lady smiles. She jumps when a large, black head pushes her arm. _The panther_. After a moment’s hesitation, she frees her hand from the plaid and pets Shadow’s black fur, stroking her silky ears. The rolling purr from the demon’s throat reverberates in her chest.

Griffon ruffles his feathers from his position on Nico’s jukebox and lets out a squawk.

“Hey! I’ve never seen her do that! Have you, V? Looks like kitty’s got a thing for her!” A hysterical cackle erupts from the demon bird’s throat.

His master doesn’t move a muscle.

“Indeed.”

Shadow opens her maw in a great yawn.

Nero returns and grabs his Red Queen sword with a determined gesture.

“Enough talking. Get some rest, you need it.”

*

Battle silences the whispers. Helping Nico dig their way through the city and into the Qliphoth root system by shovel soon proves to be inadequate to dampen the memories. She wants to, needs to kill.

She convinces the reluctant Nero and the silent V to take her with them as they fight their way back into the core of the sprawling demon tree.

This time, it’s personal.

The Kalina Ann is damaged from the fight with Urizen, spitting and wheezing smoke when she tries to use it. Swearing, Lady discards the rocket launcher from her shoulder and sends Nico a desperate look. The engineer equips her with a pair of Glock 17-series, black and slick like her espresso, and a machete. Lady smiles at the weight of the vintage firearms in her palms, feeling like she’s part of a 1980’s action movie.

She intends to kick more ass than Sarah Connor. Wearing her oversized overall, she looks more like a part of the Ghostbusters crew, Nico mocks with a grin. Lady whacks her on the arm and ventures into the root system, flanked by a cackling Griffon.

Splattered with blood from an exploded clot, she places a bullet into the compound eyes of a green Empusa. The insectoid demon lets out a clicking screech and falls from the sky. She slices at its neck, relishing in the crack of severed tendons.

There is nothing like the rush from killing devils. Euphoric, she lets out a girlish laugh.

Nero blasts another Empusa to dust and sinks his firearms with a frown.

“Um, Lady, are you sure you’re ok? You’re acting a bit strange.”

A spike of irritation flares in her. How is her behaviour any different than his, shouting his “Begone!” as he charges demons and slices them with his sword, occasionally getting hit by a blow hard enough to splinter the devil breakers Nico’s made him?

She’s impressed by his skill. He is still a bit rough around the edges, fighting with his heart rather than with his mind, but he gets the job done.

“Get off my back, Nero.”

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. She immediately regrets her tone. He means well.

A blast of bright, purple light explodes further ahead, followed by a hysterical cackle.

“Fry, little piggy!”

Griffon electrocutes a Caina, its hellish scythe sent through the air in an elegant bow. Shadow appears from the ground and pierces the death-like demon with her tail, transformed into a sharp spear. The bird lets out another snigger.

“You out!”

V rushes forward and slices the demon with his cane. It breaks into showers of black spots, disintegrating into the air.

“Return to the underworld.”

Lady stills from stupefaction.

 _That’s how he fights. He commands his familiars until enemies are dying and deal the final blow himself_.

Lady had questioned V’s participation in battle. He gave a confusing, weak impression, his lithe body looking like it could break from a single blow. And yet, there was something unyielding about him. He emanated a strange mix of vigorous youth and aged fragility, of resolve and hurt. In battle, he never engages with the same energy as Nero, but with an air of arrogant spite, as if never doubting he would come out of it victorious.

Rising from the dirt, a ring of Antenoras surrounds him. Their green cleavers glisten from the strange light emanating from inside the root system.

“Looks like we need to give him a hand.”

Nero equips his Red Queen, tensing his muscles to run over to their companion when a soaring meteor rushes through the sky. It hits the spot where V stood.

Lady gasps. From the rubble climbs a monster, a huge golem with a burning eye in the centre of its chest. It swings it club-like arms, trashing the Antenora’s into splinters. On top of its shoulder stands V, his sable mane turned snow white.

She gapes.

 _Holy crap_.

*

They spend the night in a ruined hotel, its rooms largely smashed but with some beds intact. Griffon and Shadow hold the watch as they feast on left cans of fruit in a sugary sauce, pickles, canned beef, and small, peeled potatoes in glass jars. Nero finds several bottles of champagne but the occasion feels off for opening them. Lady laments the pool of melted ice cream from a smashed freezer.

The voice returns at night, like melted honey in her ear. She wakes with a gasp, trashing to escape a moist embrace. To be released from the grasp of warm flesh...

A low, rumbling sound startles her. Two yellow eyes appear like lanterns in the darkness of the small room.

She frowns, head still aching from her dream.

“Go away.”

The mattress dents from the weight of the panther's paw.

“I said go away. What -”

The large cat jumps on the bed and places its velvety body next to her, tail swinging once, twice.

Her protest dies in her throat. The voice in her head - silent. Drowned by the resonant, deep purr of a demon in cat form.

The warm weight of the panther’s body gently forces her to lay still. A raspy tongue licks the salt from her cheeks. She relaxes into the sensation of being trapped, but not merged.

She sleeps. Her dreams a white, serene weave of nothing.

*

The next day, they join ranks again in their quest to sever enough blood clots to wither the stalks and enter the epicentre of the Qliphoth. To her intense mortification, she breaks out in tears after they cut down two death scissors, falling onto her knees.

“Lady, for fuck’s sake! Get back to the car!”

Nero grits his teeth in frustration, but he stops himself and places a hand on her trembling shoulder.

“It’s ok to be hurt after what you went through! You don’t have to fight, V and I can take care of it! We _will_ find Trish and Dante.”

She nods and gets up on her feet, apologizing through tears and snot. Her insides feel like they are filled with needles or splintered glass.

“I will escort her back to the van. You can take care of the rest on your own, can’t you?”

Nero hesitates, glaring at V before he equips another devil breaker and runs off in response.

Her whole body shaking, she is too weak to refuse V’s offer and lets him guide her out of the underground. They past slithering roots, carcasses of drained people and pulsating blood clots, until they approach the opening to the city and Nico’s van.

He glances at her, giving his silver cane a spin in his hand.

“Nero is right. There is no shame in experiencing hurt and confusion after what you went through.”

She clenches her jaw, trying not to let the bitterness from being such a fragile mess take over. An acid web of regret spins in her chest.

“I don’t understand,” she spits. “What did Urizen gain from capturing me? Trish I get, she’s nothing but a living source of spiteful energy, but me?”

He smiles crookedly.

“You are a descendant of the priestess that helped Sparda seal the Temen-Ni-Gru. Without you, Artemis would be but a shell, an empty vessel.”

 _How did you..?_ She halts the question.

“She told me I would be nothing without her.”

“And yet it was she who was nothing without you. The weak often tries to subjugate the strong in such ways, by concealing and converting their roles.”

Lady clenches her jaw, pushing down a wave of nausea.

“She wasn’t even in control of herself. She was a spawn of Urizen.”

“Many men reduce women to the role of nurturers. It seems Urizen is no different.”

They reach the body of the van. The Devil May Cry sign is lit, but there is no one by the steering wheel. Stepping closer, the sound of Nico's soft snores reaches them from inside the van.

“She’s sleeping.” Lady smiles and places her index finger to her lips. They pause by the car, her shoulders against the sliding doors, him beside her.

She gazes out on the outline of the broken city, the Qliphoth looming menacingly over them like a sprawling cloud. It is so strange to hear the silence that reigns after the demon tree erupted from the ground. No birds, no honking horns of cars, no people chattering… Only the wind whistling through exposed gas pipes and the occasional bump of broken concrete falling onto scraps of metal. The skyline hovers in a sickening, hazy grey and white, coloured by all the dust that the eruption forces into the air. They’re at the beginning of summer, but not a flower or a budding tree are seen.

Their brief conversation on the way from the root system has calmed her enough not to be overcome by a feeling of bursting from pain. She glances at him.

“Thanks for coming with me. I’m sorry for -”

“Don’t apologize.”

She swallows her words. He scrutinizes her in a way that makes her want to fidget.

“Tell me,” he asks in his smokey voice, “what do you find to be the worst about your experience of being trapped inside Artemis?”

She winces. Should he ask such a question? Should she not - forget? Deny? Move on?

A part of her whispers of the necessity to speak. A part that wants nothing else.

“I can’t stand the memory of - the feeling of helplessness. Of total loss of control, like some damsel in distress in a video game written by dudes.”

He snorts.

She takes a deep breath, hands shaking.

“The worst was how a part of me didn’t want to be free. She… nurtured me. She took, and took, and took, and she gave. She fed me light. And then she drained me. I felt like I could do anything for another surge.”

Lady swallows and shakes her head, frowning in disgust from the memories.

“She whispered things to me… How we would never be apart. How I would die without her. How no one had cared for me as she did. And you know what? A part of me believed her.”

“It is the cruellest form of manipulation. To claim that you care, only to pave the way for control.”

He holds his cane in the air, scrutinizing it.

_He who binds to himself a joy_   
_Dot the winged life destroy;_   
_But he who kisses the joy as it flies_   
_Lives in Eternity's sunrise._

She smiles, despite herself. His habit of reciting poems is annoyingly pretentious and oddly comforting at the same time. She glances at him, the silky raven hair that covers his right eye, the pattern of black on his slender arms. He has a good nose. She always liked big noses on men. Her own nose was her favourite part of her face, apart from her vari-coloured eyes.

To her surprise, he turns to place a tattooed arm against the body of the van by her head, enframing her. It sends a spark through her that lands like a pit of warmth in her stomach.

His gaze lowers to her lips.

“He who desires but acts not breeds pestilence.”

With that, he kisses her.

Eyes wide, she stiffens. The strands of his raven hair tickle her jaw. The sensation of his lips against her reminds her of drinking from the misty brim of a glass. She melts against him.

When he releases her, his breath whisks into her mouth. When did she lift her hands to weave them into his hair? Her eyes never leave his lips.

He presses her further against the cool metal of the van and returns to her mouth, entices her to open her lips to deepen the kiss. Her breath hitches. She meets him in every press of their lips, every careful move of their tongues.

_Don’t stop. Help me forget..._

He raises his arm, hand still holding his cane. The cold metal press against her clavicle and she gasps. He stops short, seeking her gaze with his.

She returns to reality, not unlike breaching the surface after a dive into the ocean, gulping for air.

“Why did you do that?”

“Your anguish. It... calls to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means…” He exhales softly through his nose and touches her hair, “that my existence has gained an unexpected, other reason.”

*

The next day, Lady stays back in the van with Nico. Exhausted to the mind rather than the body, she agrees to not fight, but rest. The restlessness has her wishing to jump out of her own skin, but Nico distracts her by showing her how spare parts from a Kalashnikov can be used to fix the Kalina Ann.

Her mind wanders from Nico’s chatter and turns to the other day. The contrast between the cool surface of the car and the warmth of his mouth… She lifts her hand to graze her lips with the tips of her fingers, remembering the silky touch of his hair.

“Hey! Lady! Are you listening?”

Lady jumps.

“Yes, of course…”

Nico peers at her with a teasing smile.

“The hell you were. I bet you were thinking about V, huh? That’s right, I saw you last night, smooching by the van. Don’t look so dazed, ain't nothing wrong! He’s kinda cute, I guess, if you’re into that… goth-emo thing he’s got going.”

Nico gesticulates and raises an eyebrow in an expression that tells of her opposite opinion in the matter.

With a sensation of her soul leaving her body, Lady stutters, face burning.

“Ain’t nothing wrong, I said! Smooching is good! It’s part of what makes us human.”

Nico winks and stumps her Marlboro in an ashtray.

Lady stills. _What makes us human..._

Both turn their heads to the door, registering the voice of Nero outside.

Lady frowns as they step out of the van. Nero is pacing, his steps grinding the dust of the floor from frustration. V stands beside him like a statue in comparison, Griffon flapping above their heads.

“I’m sick of this!” Nero gesticulates with his devil bringer, a twisted form with a drill-like head on top.

“Three days of piercing blood clots and bringing down those goddamn demons, and for what?”

“Patience, Nero.” V observes Nero’s pacing with a wrinkle of discontent between his eyebrows. “Tomorrow, it will all change. We are approaching the end.”

Nero stops flat, a disbelieving expression written on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“I know the location of the devil sword Sparda. With the sword, we can defeat Urizen.”

“Ehh, V?” Griffon exhales in incredulity, “I don’t think you are strong enough to wield the Sparda. Sorry to break it to ya, but you’re a bit lacking in that department. You better give the idea rest.”

V raises an amused eyebrow at Nero.

“I didn’t say I would be the one to wield it.”

Nero stares at V for a few moments, until he shakes his head and enters the van.

“Anything is better than this. Let’s get some rest.”

Nico follows him inside. When Lady steps the entrance, V extends a hand to her arm and turns her.

“I would like to… show you something.” He nods at Nico. “You may go ahead. We’ll catch up with you later.”

Nico whistles in a teasing sound, eyebrow arched. Lady can’t see Nero’s reaction, because she has stepped back out onto the ground.

“Hey, Lady!” Griffon calls, flapping at her side as the van drives off towards the abandoned hotel, “He wants to _kiss_ ya! Ain’t that right, V? Hehehe! Kissy-ki-”

With a flick to his wrist, V makes Griffon vanish into a cloud of black spots.

“I apologize.”

Lady hides her laughter behind her hand.

*

The steady crunch of pulverized concrete follows their steps as he directs her inside the old city park. The former recreation area is transformed into a landscape of metal scrap, fallen tree trunks and winding Qliphoth roots. The stream that fed the willow-enframed pond flushes under the roof of an upside down Ford Escort and reaches the waters in billowing flows. At the horizon, the first twinkle of stars appear.

“Here’s what I wanted you to see.”

He points the tip of his cane towards the patch of grassy soil, turned by a thorned root.

At first, she sees nothing. She squints at a cluster of small movements on the ground, forming a winding path.

“Ants!”

She crouches with an expression of amazement. The minuscule, six-legged insects run in a queue formation towards the pond. A few of them carry needles from a larch, others serrated pieces of leaves.

“These are Carpenter ants,” she remembers from her biology lessons, “their queen nests in caveats of wood.”

He crouches beside her, hands on his cane.

“I admire their steadfastness. In the midst of everything, they continue their strife, finding new ways to live.”

He turns to her.

“Should humans be any lesser in their ambitions?”

She observes the ants, overcome by strange vertigo. For some reason, the sight of the insects fills her with hope. Not everything is lost. Things can get back to normal.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Her throat is wrung with emotion.

“It is not all I wished to show you.”

He points his cane to a mansion by the pond, largely intact but with one side penetrated by a Qliphoth branch.

She takes his hand.

*

Ascending the stairs to the upper rooms, he stumbles, exhaling a low moan.

“V? Are you ok?”

Eyebrows knitted in worry, she places a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes. The air is changing.”

She shakes her head, not understanding what he means when they reach the upper level.

The floor is covered in a rich, patterned carpet, the walls covered in a flowery wallpaper. Above them clinks the crystals of a lamp, the glass sending prisms from the reflection of the dying sun.

Hand in hand, they enter what previously was a parlour. A mattress rests on the fishbone parquet and a gold-framed painting of water lilies still hang crookedly on the wall.

A part of the roof is blasted off the building, allowing for a hole from which they have a view of the demon tree in its full form.

Its star-shaped form reminds her of the branches of a barnacle or a sea lily.

A faint, warm gush of wind stirs his hair. Hand on his arm, she coaxes him to turn. He has taken her to this house for one reason, and she wants it to happen.

She desperately wishes to feel human again.

Cupping his face with her hands, she kisses him. He responds by letting go of his cane in a clatter against the floor, backing her against the mattress. When her calves hit the edge, they melt onto it. He climbs on top of her, her back against the soft fabric dented by buttons.

He is so light against her body as if he were made of dust. She opens his leather vest to caress the immensity of the swirling tattoos on his chest, his ribs visible under his skin.

He undresses her, slowly unzipping the overall and pushing it from her arms down to her hips. The hairs on her arms raise in a thrill.

“ _The nakedness of woman is the work of God,_ ” he rasps, his heavy gaze drifting over her.

“Your poet said that?”

He snorts.

“He did.”

She shakes her head, smiling. The smile melts to a gasp at the feeling of his mouth on her breast. His lips tease her nipple, making her toes curl with need. Continuing to kiss a trail down her abdomen to the hair on the mound above her sex, he pushes the overall further down her hips and thighs.

She tenses, wanting him to go where everything _thrums_ , afraid of it all the same.

He caresses her thighs; she opens them wider, sending him a hesitant eye cast.

He bites his lower lip in a way that sends a wave of heat through her.

“I’ll be gentle.”

The first lick of his tongue separating her folds sends a violent thrill through her body. Her skin breaks out in goosebumps. He continues, the first swirls tentative, until he finds a fluid rhythm accompanied by her moans.

It feels like falling. Or rising? Swirling in a whirlwind of want until nothing exists but his tongue, his hands steadying her hips, his content noises.

She is drowning, and she wants nothing but to drown.

When he stops and turns his head to kiss the inside of her thigh, she whines in protest, begs him to continue. _Please…_

He curves his lips to a shrewd smile before he sinks his mouth to her again. She digs the back of her head into the mattress, panting, her hand weaving into the black tresses of his hair.

It begins like a tingle, a firm wave that rolls and rises, higher and higher until it crashes over her. Her scream bounce between the walls and out into the night.

There it is, the light that surges through her, coming from inside her core. She arches her back, lost, lost.

When the wave has retreated, he hovers over her, smiling that sly, crooked smile of his. She pants, touching his face.

“What are you doing to me?”

“You are always in control. Always so strong. I wanted to see you crumble from pleasure. To hear you beg for mercy… to surrender yourself without fear.”

Her sight quivers. A warm, fat tear trembles on her lower eyelashes and falls onto her cheek. Another. Warm streaks of salt trace glistening lines down her temples, into the soft cushion below her.

He catches a drop on his index finger.

“She could never take anything from you. There was nothing she could give that you didn’t already have.”

Lady sits and wipes the tears from her face.

“What about you?”

He smiles, lips still glistening with her come.

“ _The most sublime act is to set another before you._ ”

“Bullshit.”

She grabs his shoulders, straddling him onto the cushions and gently swiping his hair out of his face. His lips taste of her. Kissing a trail from his ear down to his neck, she brushes the pendant on his clavicle and shifts her hips to carefully press against his erection.

He groans softly. Smiling, she lifts her gaze to his. A flake of skin underneath his left eye trembles in the faint wind. It releases its grip of his face and reveals a web of cracks on his skin, like a broken window.

She freezes.

“What’s happening to you?”

“My time is running out.”

He heaves his slight chest in a sigh.

“I long to be free.”

Panic rises in her like a muddled wave of clay through her chest. Her voice trembles.

“I don’t want you to die.”

“It is not death I seek.”

“Then, what is it?”

“Completion.”

Another tear runs down her cheek and onto his face.

“I wish it were me.” She touches his hair and sobs. “That I could make you complete. That I could make you... feel good.”

“I know.”

She snivels and directs her gaze from him, cracking on the inside, like his surface cracks.

“I’m sorry, I -.”

“Don’t ever be sorry for wanting to be needed. It is an intrinsic part of being human. Demons think of it as a weakness, but it is what makes you strong. What keeps you together.”

He gently urges her to return to him.

“Lie here, with me. The day is growing old. Let us savour its last hours. Lie with me, ‘til the rising sun. Tomorrow, all will change.”

She places her head on his shoulder.

*

When she wakes the next morning, he is not there. She runs to the van, heart aching from worry. By the lit Devil May Cry sign stands Nico, gesticulating to a tall blonde…

A weight the size of boulder lifts from Lady’s shoulders. She runs towards Trish, calling her name, hesitating in the last second. Trish isn’t the cuddly kind. The blonde rolls her eyes at Lady’s clumsiness and embraces her.

“What happened to you?” Lady scrutinizes Trish for injuries despite knowing she won’t find any, “are you ok?”

“Yes, but we don’t have the time to stand here and chat. Get in the car and we’ll tell you everything.”

Nico climbs into the driver’s seat, cigarette lit in her mouth and twists the keys. The van starts with a roar. Lady falls onto the sofa, Trish claws her fingers into the foldable table.

“V found Dante and gave him the devil sword Sparda.” Her voice trembles from the furious ride. “Dante cut me out of that asshole Cavaliere Angelo and went straight for Urizen.”

“Where is V? And Nero?”

“They went after him. Lady, Urizen isn’t some ordinary demon. He’s Dante's brother.”

Lady widens her eyes. Her mind reels. She tenses her muscles not to fall from the sofa when Nico steers the van in a sharp turn, wheels screeching.

“Vergil?” She exhales.

“Yeah. There’s more. V spoke to me after Dante killed the demon that held me. He told me how Vergil used the Yamato to separate his demonic and human sides to rule the underworld and obtain unlimited power. His human side... It's V.”

All the blood in her head rushes down Lady’s feet as time appears to slow down. Her heart thuds dully in her chest.

_It is not death I seek._

_Then, what is it?_

_Completion._

Nico hits the breaks, Lady and Trish lurch and stumbles from the force. Before them, the exposed core of the Qlipoth hovers, a menacing trunk of sickly green and white. The smell of blood is overwhelming.

Nico marches into the van with a few determined steps. She equips the Kalina Ann, steps outside, and blasts an opening into the stem with a large bang.

Wiping her forehead, she turns to the gaping Lady and Trish with a grin.

“Let’s get goin’, ladies. You’ve got some demon butt to kick.”

*

The two female demon hunters leave Nico on a platform before the upper echelon of the Qlipoth, no longer able to venture further with the van.

To reach the top, they must jump suspension floors and travel through blood-clotted veins, squeezed through the circulatory system of the tree like pills through the oesophagus.

Spit out from one tube, Lady vomits, shaking and covered in blood. The ride resembles the claustrophobic experience of being trapped inside Artemis too much. Trish urges her to continue, only one more ride before they reach the top.

When they do, they find themselves in an illusion. A grassy field stretches before them, ruffled by a mild gust of wind. A house, painted in blue and with two stories, appears in the cracked sky. Beneath a slithering tree with hanging trunks lies the enormous body of Urizen, Dante beside him.

He had bested the king of demons in battle.

Nero supports a weakened V, stumbling towards the great demon on the ground. Lady wants to call his name, but her voice shrivels in her throat.

“In the last throes of defeat, I see.”

V utters the words in a tender, mocking tone and lets go of Nero, supporting his trembling limbs on his cane.

“You…” Still alive, Urizen raises his head towards his human half.

Dante places his sword on his shoulder and gestures at V.

“Get back. Things are about to get really messy.”

“No! Please… Let me. I want to end this battle with my own hands.”

Dante steps back, hesitantly eyeing the tattooed, crumbling man. Neither he nor Nero notices Trish and Lady, witnessing the happening from a distance.

V climbs on top of Urizen, shaking and groaning from the effort. The sight claws at Lady’s insides.

“Do not struggle. For if you can’t even defeat me, you’ve already lost.”

“I will not lose,” Urizen growls. “Not to Dante. I need power! More power!”

V falls on his knees.

“I know. We are one and the same, you and I. But you’ve lost me, and I’ve lost you. Yet we are connected by that one feeling. ‘While thy branches mix with mine and our roots together join’.”

Dante runs towards them. V thrusts his cane into the eye on Urizen’s chest. A blinding, blue pillar of light erupts towards the sky, sending them staggering. The illusion is broken. Large pieces of sky-coloured glass tumble in the air.

In the middle of the fading pillar stands a man with back-slicked, grey hair. He’s holding a katana, the blue bands of the sword billowing in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from The Book of Urizen, Chapter 5 by William Blake.
> 
> The poem V recites is Several Questions Answered.
> 
> The citations are from The Proverbs of Hell, also William Blake.


	3. Hold infinity in the palm of your hand

_My only love sprung from my only hate._   
_To early seen unknown and known too late._

\- William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet (1597)

 

As a child, Lady did a few years of horseback riding. Every Sunday and Tuesday night, she mounted her pink panther bike to the stables. She carried bales of hay, groomed soft fur, and smeared leather equipment. She learned to control the stubbornest of ponies in canter and trot, and once won a contest in horseback jumping.

The day she, at age twelve, was upgraded to the ride the big horses, not ponies, her pulse spiked from excitement. Before her in the box stood the most notorious gelding in the stable, the black Aeneas, snorting through his nostrils.

She wasn’t afraid. The horse was powerful enough to kill her in a whim, still, her heart opened up to the challenge with nothing but a rush of anticipation.

Standing in her apartment, embraced by Vergil Sparda, she is overcome by a similar sensation.

A light rain falls outside and paints her windows in a delicate patter. She can’t hear it. Her senses are filled with him; his breath, forced through his nostrils, the warmth emanating from his body, his scent. He has lifted his hands to cup her face and redirects his mouth from hers to her neck. The fabric of his suit jacket is smooth against her palms as she pushes it from his shoulders.

He unfastens the button at the nape of her neck. A mix of anticipation and nervousness rushes through her.

Standing before him naked will mark the point of no return.

He peels her dress past her clavicle, off her arms, and down her abdomen. His Adam's apple bob. When the dress pools at her feet, she lifts her ankle to unhook the clasps of her slingbacks.

“Leave them on.”

She flushes. His request is so… dirty. Throat wrung from the spike of arousal that flashes through her, she sinks her foot.

“You are stunning.” He whispers the words against her ear before he continues to brush his lips against the place where her neck meets her shoulder.

A fluttery sensation fills her stomach. _Butterflies_. _Goddamn butterflies_.

Instead of a unified whole, her body sunders into competing, intense sensations from his touch. The hairs on her arm raise from a rush of bliss, her lips swell and fall apart in steady exhales. The blood soars in her ears and pools in a heady pulse between her legs.

The sensation of his fingers pushing her lace briefs down her hips sends a frisson dancing along her skin. The rush is strong enough to bring her back to a state of her parts unifying into a whole.

“Is this for me?”

She opens her eyes. He quirks his lips in a sly smile. The tip of his finger grazes the trail on her sex to the cleft between her legs.

She whimpers, tensing from want.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

She grabs his arms not to fall under her weak knees.

“I did it for you.”

He rewards her by slipping a finger into her slick heat. A low groan escapes him. Gasping, she grabs his arms and rolls her hip to encourage him to go deeper. The fabric of his shirt teases her nipples. It’s driving her crazy. His thumb grazes her clit and she fights for breath.

“Does it - do you feel good?”

She turns a heavy-lidded gaze to his face, mind halting. He’s asking because he’s unsure of what he’s doing.

How many have Vergil been with - ever? There must be at least one; Nero’s proof of that, but besides whomever Nero's mother is? Lady pushes the thought of the unknown woman away. His wishes for her feel good, to make her enjoy.

“Yeah.” She directs her hands to his to guide him, encouraging him to press the heel of the hand against her swollen bud. “You can -”

A bolt of pleasure zings through her when he finds the right spot.

“ _Oh_ , right there.”

He steadies her with his arm on her back, observing her face as she continues to guide him. Low moans escape her. When he crooks his finger inside her in a fluid, unhurried motion, she lets out a pitiful whine, a sheen of sweat gathering at her temples.

She’s going to come. The pressure coiling in her abdomen tightens too fast; it’s been too long. For weeks, she’s refused herself her own fingers in an attempt to deny how she’s wished they were his.

“I’m going to make you forget,” he breathes in her ear, his skin burning, “about him.”

She frowns; he can’t mean - he can’t be jealous of himself - when the friction becomes too good. Something inside her cracks and splinters, she exhales a joyous, brief wail, trembling.

Holding on to him, she descends the peak, muscles turned into jelly. He kisses her, deeply, causing her breath to hitch in her lungs. He releases her lips and glints a prideful smile at her.

“Another gift.”

Her brain short-circuits. If he means her, her orgasm, as a gift... It’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to her. How is this man possible?

Leaning down, he hooks his arm under her knees and scoops her up, striding towards her bedroom.

This is not going according to her plans, at all. She wanted it to be over quick, perhaps against the wall, her hands star-shaped against the wallpaper, him working behind her. Fast, dirty, efficient.

Nothing could have prepared her for how she longs to melt into him, to feel every inch of him against her. He lays her on top of her rose-patterned bedspread. The rain flushes against the glass pane of her window, enveloping them in bands of light from the street lights outside.

He slides a hand from her clavicle to her chest, cupping a breast and enclosing her nipple with his lips. It makes her head spin, her skin set ablaze, but she urges him to raise on his knees with a gentle push to his shoulder.

“Clothes. Off.” Her voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to her, husky with want.

A muscle under his eye twitches. He unbuttons his vest. She raises to her own knees to help him undo his shirt, smiling at how her fingers tremble. Biting her lower lip, she savours the expanse of steadily exposed, pale skin over taut muscles. She especially relishes in the part where his shoulder meets his arm, the strong bicep, dotted with a birthmark.

Letting her hand slide down his abdomen, she teases him by palming his erection on top of the fabric of his pants before directing her fingers to his belt.

He groans, his eyes burn. Lifting his hands to cup the back of her head, he pushes her back onto the bed, their mouths and tongues entangled. She helps him slide his boxers down his hips. For a few, long heartbeats, they lay enjoying the sensation of being skin against skin, kissing, until her head spins. His hard length presses against the inside of her thigh, his arms tremble. The situation is taking all his will-power, she can tell.

She doesn’t want to wait anymore; she opens her thighs wider, angles her hips.

“Come.”

He shifts, prodding at her. She lifts her hips and in a slow push, he sinks into her.

“Oh, God,” she whispers.

He weighs her down, grounding her on the bed, enframing her completely.

He lets out a grunt. Readjusting his weight on his arms, he tentatively retracts his hips and pushes back in.

“You feel - _amazing_ ,” he groans from the back of his throat.

She moans in response and rolls her hips to meet him. The pressure grows again, from the way he fills her, from the way his muscles work underneath her hands, his breath in her ears. Their bodies slide against each other in a rhythm that has her gasping and breathing wanton moans. He places a hand on the side of her neck, thumb caressing her jaw. His damp forehead touches hers and their breaths intermingle.

It’s too much for her. This careful rhythm, his eyes gazing into hers like she’s some lost treasure; it's too soft. The whole situation is turning her brain into mush. If they keep this up…

The tenderness is going to make her cry. 

She begs him in a hoarse voice for more; faster. _Please_.

With a growl, he grabs her hip and surges forward. He plunges into her; she keens. They set an unforgiving pace, her legs wrapped around his midriff, nails digging into his shoulders.

He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head. A bead of sweat runs down his temple. His eyes blaze, lust-fogged.

“Do I make you feel good?” He breathes, thrusting into her in a way that sends sparks flying along her spine.

_Could it be - that we want the same thing?_

“Yes!” She cries out, “it’s so good. Please, don’t stop…”

He plants his head in the crook of her neck, his body tenses. With a quick jerk, he pulls out of her. His come surges all the way up to her chest, painting her in white trails.

*

She wakes by the light that spills through the blinders of her windows. The sound of a barking dog and a car driving past on the street outside reach her ears.

She’s alone. The realization hits her like a kick to the guts. The manifest presence of his absence is so glaring it stops the air short in her lungs.

This is what she wanted, right? One night together and then be free.

Freedom shouldn’t hurt this much.

She emits a pained “ow” when her feet hit the heel of her slingbacks, removed and thrown onto the floor by him the other night. Dressing in a blue, silk robe bought on a trip to Vietnam when she was eighteen, she leaves her bedroom.

Her apartment, so familiar to her, has changed character. It is marked by his visit, by what they did. She curses silently at how her things; the mat they stood upon, the books and cd-cases he scrutinized, draw her attention to cruelly remind her of him.

Frivolous tears burn in her eyes. _Shit_.

She jumps when a set of keys is inserted into her door.

When he opens the door, catching her gaze as if not sure if he’s allowed inside, a shower of exhilaration washes over her. The sensation is so strong she involuntary heaves her chest in an exhale that resembles a sob.

He holds a blue plastic bag in his hand, filled with groceries.

“I took your keys. I hope that’s ok.”

Too relieved to bare any pretence of not being happy to see him, she takes the few steps needed to wrap her arms around his neck.

He closes her door, places the bag on the floor and responds to her embrace by kissing her, lips warm and hand cradling the back of her head.

She lets go, face warming, and nudges her chin to a package under his arm.

“What is that?”

“It’s a coffee maker. I found only instant coffee in your kitchen - that refuse is a crime against all living. With this, I’ll make you a proper espresso.”

She snorts.

“Ok.”

She leans forward, curious, to inspect the rest of the bag. He flicks an unsure gaze to her, the tips of his ears reddening.

“I bought...”

 _Holy crap_. A blue package of Durex condoms lays beside a loaf of bread in a paper bag and a carton of cheese. She wishes to laugh or to sink through the floor, but she does neither.

After that first time on her bed, they did it once more in her shower. When inside her, he struggles to let her finish first and pulls out of her to coat her abdomen in his come before she can reach her crest.

She doesn’t mind. She likes the weight of him on top of her or pressing her to the wall as he did in the shower, rolling his hips against hers until it’s too much for him. His strangled groans when he comes makes her smile, but the frustration he emanates is palpable.

It’s such an absurd thing to imagine; Vergil Sparda, going to the local supermarket to buy condoms…

She nods eagerly, blushing. His shoulders relax, the corners of his mouth twitches in a smile.

*

Vapour rushes from the snout of the espresso maker on top of her stove. The scent that follows reminds her of Nico’s van, except without the constant tinge of cigarettes in the air. He removes it from the hotplate and pours the deep, velvet liquid into two of her green-tinged glasses. She doesn’t own any espresso cups.

She has cooked eggs, but of course, she was nervous and messed it up. The yolk is too runny, but he doesn’t complain.

She sits on her jumbled-patterned countertop, a plate with a piece of chewy, sourdough bread and a French cheese that tastes nutty, on her lap. He bought grapes, oranges, and fresh strawberries, piling in a small bowl beside her potted palette leafed plants. The fierce siren of a police car rushing by outside cannot break her contented state of mind.

“How far did you have to go to buy these things?” She accepts one of the glasses. The heat of the coffee spreads a mist on the surface.

“That is… of no importance.” He takes a sip from his glass without breaking eye contact.

She lips the espresso to hide the flash of attraction that surges through her. Scrunching her nose, she makes a face at the bitter taste and reaches for the bowl of sugar cubes to her left.

He stops her hand.

“Don’t shun the bitterness. Savour it.”

She sinks her hand from the bowl and takes another sip, toes curling from the tartness of the warm liquid. She relaxes and lets her taste buds experience the taste, finding an allure to it. It is not acid or harsh, but creamy.

Maybe she can learn how to appreciate espresso after all.

He sits on her vintage step stool, elbow resting against her sink and hand against his temple. His legs stick out from underneath him, forming a long v.

“Tell me, what would you do if you didn’t spend your days hunting demons?”

“Um,” she reaches for a strawberry, “I don’t know…”

“You don’t know?”

She presses her lips together in a moment’s hesitation.

“Ok, don’t laugh, but in high school, I excelled in biology and later took courses in botany at Uni…”

“Botany?”

“Yeah, you know; plants, flowers, bryophytes, algae, and fungi... Before my father directed all his studies to the dark arts, he was a biologist.”

Her ears warm and a lump forms in her throat, but she continues.

“He wrote a thesis on arbuscular mycorrhiza - that’s a specific symbiotic relation between fungi and many types of crop - and theorized how the process creates a protein that helps to store carbon in the soil. And you know what?”

She lifts a hand to underline her words and leans forward, smiling.

“I’ve found an error in his method suggesting the protein isn’t restricted to crop-fungi mycorrhiza but may also…”

She halts and lets out a peal of small, embarrassed laughter, hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry, I was rambling…” She shakes her head, cheeks burning.

_Lady, you absolute dork._

“No, continue. I enjoy it when you speak of things that fascinate you. Your eyes… they glow.”

She lets her hand sink, overcome by stupefaction so profound it silences all embarrassment. He smiles a minute, crooked smile. The permanent angry wrinkle between his eyebrows makes him look menacing to someone who doesn’t know him, but a sincere light colour his gaze.

 _He means it._ The conviction slips into her heart like silk. No raised eyebrow or smirk in judgement. She would have appreciated a silent tolerance of her quirky interest in plants and mushroom, but this?

She hops off the countertop and reaches out to take the glass from his hand. Placing it on the sink, she weaves her fingers into his hair to claim his lips with hers. He responds, tasting of the rich coffee, and grabs her behind to let her straddle him. Her legs wrapped around his hips, he rises to lift her without breaking the kiss.

She rides him on her sofa until her breath comes out in short gasps and her body convulses. He never breaks eye contact, until he throws his head back onto the back pillow with a strangled groan, fingers digging into her hips. They hadn’t bothered to remove their clothes but opened zips and untied straps to merge. The seam of his fly digs into the skin on the inside of her thigh, but she doesn’t care. He’s breathing hard into her neck, his heart thundering against hers as she rests her head beside his onto the pillow. She retracts to meet his gaze and touches her forehead to his.

His hand on her back, stroking her, sends a lust-fogged wave of tenderness rushing through her. She loves the way he looks when he’s lost in her, in their movements, eyes glazed in wonder. She loves the way he grits his teeth and knits his eyebrows in pleasure when he comes...

She recalls Dante’s story of the day he and Vergil, only kids, were attacked by a demon army and lost their mother. How Vergil was left, alone and thought abandoned in the jaws of monsters.

She wants to kill anyone who’s ever hurt him.

Unable to afford that emotion, she carefully lifts her hips to dismount his lap. They gasp in sync. With a crooked smile, he removes the condom with a kleenex and pulls his pants back onto his hips.

Clutching her silk robe at her waist, she darts a gaze to the clock above her door. Her skin is laced with heat and a heavy pulse still swell between her legs.

“I’m going to be so late. “ She smiles, but a tinge of panic wrings her guts. She doesn’t wish to say goodbye, knowing she’ll probably never see him again… Unless in battle.

“Don’t go.”

She flits her gaze to him, sitting with his elbows on his knees, palms grazing.

“Call in - sick. Is that what you do? When you can’t go to work because you are ill. Claim you have a fever. Stay.”

The voice in her mind whispers it’s going to be the least smart thing she’ll do in her life.

She lifts the handset of her red bakelite phone and spins the number to the office.

*

They spend two days pretending the outer world doesn’t exist.

They order food, Chinese and Vietnamese. Like at the restaurant, he barely touches his plate but observes her as she savours the sweet and sour eggplant, crispy tofu and airy rice.

He continues to examine her bookshelf and finds her mother’s Russian classics; _Anna Karenina, Doctor Zhivago, Crime and Punishment_. His eyes lit when he pulls out her copy of _The Master and Margarita_.

She arches an eyebrow.

“Your favourite?”

“Absolutely.”

She shakes her head, smiling.

“Of course it is.”

_You’ve lost your cat, Woland. Perhaps Griffon was your Koróvjev._

He smiles, looking sinister. It sends a flash of reluctant want through her.

“ _Pleased to meet you, hope you’ve guessed my name_.”

She pulls her hair behind her ear with a smile.

“My grandmother once met the Rolling Stones. In the late ’60s. She was eating lunch at a hotel in Rotterdam when a bunch of long-haired, British dudes walks in and asks if they can share her table. She told me they were very polite and well-behaved. After they had gone, the waiter rushed over to her, asking if she knew who they were.”

He snorts.

“What a story.”

The temporary communion they have wordlessly agreed to uphold rests on avoidance. They avoid topics that would break the pretence of their history having no importance. She doesn’t ask where he lives, how he spends his time no longer reigning the underworld. He doesn’t ask of her experiences during that month between when Urizen captured her and his return, demon and human sides united.

When he asks how old she was when she learned how to play the guitar, she tells him and inquires in turn if he plays an instrument.

“Mother wanted me and Dante to take violin lessons. He crashed his violin on my head and I stabbed him with my bow.”

They chuckle, but the atmosphere turns fragile. Dante is a topic they avoid, as well as the happenings following up to her father’s death.

The hurt between them surfaces at certain moments. In bed, he explores the entirety of her body, transforming her into a twitching, gasping mess. At the star-shaped, fleshy scar on her thigh, the somatic memory of that night her father stabbed her, he pauses.

She meets his gaze and holds it, daring him to look away. He doesn’t. He clenches his jaw, but a spark of something softens his eyes - a hurt, mixed with - pride? With a firm hand, he urges her to turn on her stomach. He kisses the spot between her shoulder blades. His hand wanders from her arm, caressing her back to her behind, slipping a finger between her legs. She grasps the bed linen, mewling into her pillow. This is why they uphold the illusion of being wrapped into a cocoon where their history doesn’t matter. To get lost into each other and quench the thirst only the other can satisfy.

Placing his hands on her hips, he directs her onto her knees and lifts her hands onto the headboard of her bed. A moment’s pause stretches as he fiddles with the package of another condom. A rush of nervousness has her swallowing a lump in her throat. She had dreamed of doing it like this but in fantasies, it is easier to let go of thoughts of the impersonal form of this position. She laments not being able to look him in the eyes. Her thoughts shrivel to dust as he drapes his body over hers, hot skin burning her, and breathes in her ear. A strong hand caresses her neck; she cranes it to give access.

“Lady.” His voice rattles her ribcage. It’s a request for consent.

“Yes,” she exhales, arching her back. He breathes against her hair.

“What do you want? Tell me.”

His length pulses against the inside of her thigh. It’s driving her mad. She shifts to encourage him to get closer, but he tightens the grip of her throat.

“ _Tell me_.”

The anticipation is too much, the desire to have him inside her too strong; her self-control breaks.

“I want you to fuck me, please, please, fuck me…”

It’s crude. It’s probably the most indecent thing she has uttered, but he lits a need in her as no one else has.

The humiliation from begging dissolves as he grabs her hips and pushes into her. She tenses her arms to meet him, gasping. He’s so _hard_ , filling her to the brim, sending a violent flash through her every nerve end. She expects him to set a vicious pace, instead, he places his hands on hers, following her in a languid movement to their bodies.

“I dreamed of this,” he hisses into her ear, “for _weeks_ , I couldn't think of anything else. I had to have you, like this, surrendering yourself.”

She moans, beads of sweat tickling her temples. Arching her back, she moves her hips to encourage him to set a harsher pace. The hand around her tenses, he lets out a curse. She smiles. She’s not the only one lost. In her state of abandonment, she feels like a victor.

Continuing their rhythm in perfect sync, a sweet pressure builds in her. Heat swirls in her insides, electric tingles dance along her skin with every thrust of his hips. It’s causing her head to spin. His groans and breaths, the way he fills her, the sheer image of what their doing - it pushes her towards the edge dangerously fast. She hardly recognizes her own voice when the pitch of her sounds reaches a high note.

“I want to hear you,” he growls, voice thick with want, “like that night in the park. Let go for me.”

Grasping her hips, he pummels into her. Her sensation races to the limit of what she can take. Something inside her slips and bursts. Shaking, she wails, blown away by pleasure so strong it whitens her eyesight. For a long moment, she is nothing but light.

Her orgasm pushes him over his own edge, he goes rigid behind her with a groan, muscles tensing his body to a bow.

A single word falls from his lips. _Mary_.

*

On their second night, he asks about her favourite movie.

“It’s Alien.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because of the sense morale. Men who don’t listen to women die horrible deaths.”

He raises an eyebrow at her, the corner of his lips twitching.

She rolls her eyes, laughter bubbling in her.

“Because it’s beautifully made, and so thrilling! You literally sit on needles the whole time. The characters are great and the monster - it’s iconic! I love that movie. Plus, the cat survives in the end. Very important.”

She raises her index finger. He exhales in an amused sigh and gives his head a curt shake.

They are sitting on her sofa, her on her knees, turned to him with a steaming cup of tea in her hands. She’s wearing her black briefs and white shirt with the lace hem. He’s still in his black shirt and pants, sitting semi-turned to her, arm resting on the back pillow. In contrast to the fluid elegance of his movements in battle, he occasionally gives the air of not being comfortable in his own body. She needs to remind herself he has not been in his human form for more than a month’s time.

She enjoys the space he takes up in her two rooms, with his long legs and arms that don’t seem to fit her furniture.

“What’s your favourite movie? No, wait; let me guess. It’s Dirty Dancing.”

His eyebrows shoot in the air. She playfully pushes his arm.

“I’m joking! I bet it’s a classic. Casablanca?”

“That is an excellent movie. But no.”

“Then which is it?”

“The Seventh Seal by Ingmar Bergman.”

“Oh? What is it about?”

“The silence of God.”

She shuts her mouth. A moment’s tensed pause stretches between them.

She places her tea on the table before her and raises from the sofa to her bookshelf.

“I’m going to show you a movie I love.”

*

An hour later, Vergil darts her a sceptic glance. Before them, on the screen, bursts a colossal maggot from ocra-coloured soil and devours a human in its maw. Other humans take refuge on rooftops, in trees, and on a stand top holding water.

Lady emits a tiny squeal when the monster remerges and flops a car upside down.

“This is a movie you love?”

“Yes! You have to admit it’s a nail-biter! Oh, here comes the best part!”

They observe a scene where a couple blasts one of the maggot-like monsters with their arsenal of weapons from their bunker. Lady exhales an exhilarated sound and turns with a grin to her silent companion. He sends another doubtful, yet amused eye cast.

“I guess it’s… Well…”

“Oh come on, I know it’s terrible! The thing I love about Tremors is how it doesn’t _pretend_ to be a good movie! It has no other motive than to entertain, to give a bit of a thrill and a good laugh. I respect that.”

She shakes her head with a smile and reaches for the remote control.

“We don’t have to watch it if -”

“No. I enjoy how you enjoy it. I can watch you watch it.”

Her hand sinks, heart swelling like a balloon in her chest.

“How do you do that?” She whispers.

“Do what?”

She places the remote on the small table before them and climbs onto him.

“How do you make me feel so good?”

She kisses him.

His hands wander along her back, sending warm thrills on her skin. If she were a cat, she’d be purring. She reaches with her hands to unbutton his shirt, opening it to reveal his pectorals. The expanse of pale, smooth skin down to the dark hair below his navel, leading in under his trousers makes her mouth run dry. She wants to follow that trail.

“You’re beautiful, Vergil,” she murmurs, shamelessly gawking at his comely body, never getting enough of it.

“That’s... not a word I associate with myself.” His voice has gained the thickness she loves.

“It’s true.”

She lets her lips graze the shell of his ear, relishing in how it makes him groan. His hands wander from her back to her stomach and up to cup her breasts. It causes her to gasp. Underneath her, he pulses against her core. Mustering her every ounce of will-power, she redirects his hands to her back.

“It’s my turn to make you feel good.”

Readjusting her body, she sinks her mouth to his neck and ventures further to skim his right nipple with her lips. He tenses with a low groan, fingers digging into her hips. Behind them, another maggot monster explodes in a cloud of massacred flesh and blood.

Leaving his lap, she kneels between his legs and catches his gaze as she undoes his belt and pops the button on his trousers open. Her fingers tremble from impatience.

Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes shine with mirrored anticipation. She pulls down his zip, heart thumping in her chest. She doesn’t have much experience of what she wants to do, but her will to do it overrides any timidity.

When she hooks her fingers into the edges of his boxers, he stops her.

“Will you… “ His ears turn pink. “Will you paint your mouth? Again?”

She dampers the impulse to burst out in a titter. _My God, he has a lipstick kink_. To her surprise, his request has her clenching from a rush of need.

“Yeah. Of course.”

When she returns from her brief visit to the bathroom, lips coloured red, he has shut the tv off. She smiles at how his erection hasn’t faltered from the pause. He sends her a crooked smile.

Without hesitation, she kneels between his legs again and places her hand on his cock, gently pressing her fingers around it on top of his boxers. He moans and curtly lifts his hips.

Encouraged, she pulls his underwear from him to grasp at his length, giving it a tentative lick on the head. His gasp makes her skin boil. She wants him inside her, but she is on a mission.

Continuing to lick at him to make him slick and wet for her, she revels in his groans. He places his hand on her ear and carefully digs his fingertips into her scalp. He tastes salty, the skin on his cock so warm, like a blistering rod stained by her lipstick. Careful not to use her teeth, she encloses the head with her lips.

His strangled curse makes her smile. Only two days ago, he asked her to mind her language. Lost from her touch, he hisses that same word, closing his eyes in bliss.

She lets her tongue explore his shape, the ridge below the head while grasping him with his hand. His hips twitch. A small knot of nervousness tightens in her guts. She wants to take him in further, but if he thrusts into her mouth, she’s going to gag. That would spoil the mood if anything.

Using her hand, she presses lightly on his hips to signal her intent. He caresses her hair in response. The careful movement dissipates all worry. Heart pounding, she swallows him down as far as she can go, until the tip of him grazes the back of her mouth. Still holding him, she continues that movement, up and down, releasing him with a wet sound to revel in his reaction. His expression of abandonment, biting into his lower lip, makes a small jolt twitch her heart. The warmth between her legs thrums.

She sinks her head over him again, enclosing him with her lips, exploring him until he stiffens with a groan, hand clutching the fabric of her sofa.

She catches the first surge in her mouth, the second and third flows onto her neck and slides down her chest. He stares at her in amazement, breathing hard through his mouth.

She swallows, savouring the bitter taste.

*

Lady wakes the next day, searching with her hand on her bed table for the glass of water she always prepares the night before. She raises on her elbow and takes a large sip. A strong arm loops around her waist and pulls her back under the cover.

She lets out a squeak, barely placing the glass back on the table before she’s under him again. He observes her with a curious, narrow gaze.

“Are you aware that your feet are freezing, woman?”

She slips a foot between his calves and smiles at how he sucks in air between his teeth.

“Good thing you are here to warm them.”

He silences her snicker with a kiss, causing her to melt against the matters. Fingers in his hair, a spark of heat lit in her abdomen from the sensation of his bare skin against hers. The fire they have fed during the last two days burns in steady, consuming flames.

Both winces at the angry sound of her doorbell buzzing.

“Oh, God,” she groans, hand over her eyes, “please don’t let it be any of my neighbours complaining about the noises.”

She flushes at the thought of all the sighs, moans, and screams that have emanated from her place the last forty-eight hours.

“Do you want me to speak to them?”

“No.” She raises from the bed and puts on her blue robe. “Stay here.”

She steps out to her living room, adjusting her hair and tightening the strap of her robe.

“Hey, Lady! You alive?”

Lady freezes on the spot.

Characteristically filled with taunting mirth, the voice of Dante resonates from the other side of her door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mood board](https://namesonboats.tumblr.com/post/184854569420/i-updated-my-dmc-fic-a-heaven-in-hells-despair) for this chapter. 
> 
> Chapter title from the poem To See by William Blake.
> 
> I'm taking a lot of freedom in exploring Lady's background in this fic. I found it plausible that she would have done something more than hunting demons during the two decades that separate the happenings in DMC3 and DMC5. I do realize her pursuit in botany might be OOC, but she seemed like a person keen on knowledge in DMC4 to me. Arkham originally being a biologist is a headcanon. 
> 
> In the novel The Master And Margarita (Мастер и Маргарита, 1967) by Michail Bulgakov, Satan pays a visit to Moscow, calling himself Wolan and claiming he is a professor in the dark arts. He is accompanied by a large cat, Behemoth, and a witty companion called Koróvjej (or Fagot).
> 
> In 1968, The Rolling Stones released the song Sympathy For The Devil, inspired by Bulgakov’s work (from the album Beggars Banquet).


	4. My smiles and languish'd air, by love are driv'n away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I intended this fic to have four chapters, but the last chapter swelled to a monster and I decided to split it into two. Can I say thank you for all the kind comments this fic has received so far? It means a lot <3

_A man’s enemies will be the members of his own household._  
\- Matthew 10:36

 

As if struck by lightning, Lady stares at her door. Another distinct knock reverberates from its frame.

“Lady? It’s Dante!”

She darts a panicked eye cast to her bedroom. Vergil appears by the doorframe, eyes menacingly narrowed and shoulders tensed.

_He can’t. He can’t fight Dante, not now..._

She shakes her head and mimes the word _don’t_.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, jaw taut, but takes a few steps back into the room.

A wave of relief soars through her. Steeling herself, she opens the door to the apartment.

Dante is holding a large plastic cup with a frothing white and pink goop in his hand. A crooked smile spreads on his unshaven face. His long, grey hair falls into his eyes, as always.

She is struck by the similarities between the two brothers, veiled by differences that merely appear on the surface level; style of clothes, length of hair, body language… It’s curious how she has never been attracted to Dante when the mere sight of his twin brother has her knees go weak.

It wasn't always like that. V changed everything. 

Dante raises his eyebrows in a surprised expression of mirth.

“Hey, you don’t look so bad! I half expected you would open with a thermometer in your mouth and one of those… heat things people put on their heads. How are you?

“I’m ok,” she croaks. The heat that flushes her has nothing to do with a fever.

“Here.” He hands her the strawberry sundae. “I just wanted to check on you. Trish and I were worried. You never call in sick.”

Lady accepts the plastic cup with a wave of affection rushing through her. Beyond his spiteful, sarcastic surface, Dante was a caring person. In fact, he and Trish might be the only people in the world who care for her. A lump forms in her throat.

“Thank you. That’s really sweet. I’m fine, I’ve just been a bit under the weather. I’ll be back at the office tomorrow, I promise.”

“You missed out on a gig with some Antenoras!” He laughs at how she rolls her eyes. “I can come back with some pizza later if you wa-”

He stops flat, mouth hung open by the sight of something behind her. Overcome by a shower of icy fear, Lady turns.

On her coat hanger hangs Vergil’s black suit jacket.

_Shit._

Dante bursts out in a guffaw.

“Why, Lady - you have _company!_ ”

Heart in her throat, Lady stammers.

“So _that’s_ why you called in sick?” He let out another booming laugh. “I get it, I get it. It’s fine! Actually, it’s great. You deserve it. After everything you’ve gone through these last months, this might be exactly what you need.”

He winks.

“So, who’s the lucky guy? Wanna introduce me to him?”

Lady wishes for the ground to open and swallow her whole. She pushes him from her door frame in an embarrassed fit.

“Ok, ok, I get it.” He lets out another laugh. “Well, good for you. I’ll see you tomorrow then, huh? Stay in your love nest. I can’t wait to tell Trish…”

With that, he closes the door and leaves. The sound of his chuckle penetrates the wall.

Rooted to the ground, Lady stares into the air. The strawberry sundae cools her hand.

At the sound of steps behind her, she turns.

Vergil marches from her bedroom, eyes blazing with hate. As if by magic, he wears his typical attire; the leather pants, ribbed waistcoat, and dark embroidered frock. The Yamato rests in his hand. The intricate patterns on the crossguard glisten in the falling morning light from her window.

She steps forward, places the plastic cup on her bookshelf and a hand on his chest.

“No. You’re not fighting him here.”

Her voice falters.

“Please.”

His icy glare latches into her eyes, his every muscle tensed.

“He knows where you live? Does he come to your apartment often?”

The underlying meaning of his snarl seeps into her. It causes a stone to sink in her stomach. She takes a step back and tenses her jaw, overcome by bitter fatigue.

“Yes.” Her words drip with sarcasm. “As a matter of fact, he comes here every Tuesday and Friday night, and when he does, we fuck like rabbits. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

A spike of shame burns her guts from her childish outburst, but she doesn’t apologize.

He exhales, unable to hide how he tries to veil his hurt in anger.

“You have a poor sense of humour.”

“Yeah, well, I have little patience for jealousy. It always relates to a will to control.”

He looks like someone’s punched him in the guts.

“There’s a cruel side to you.”

She swallows and readjusts her robe that threatens to slide down her shoulders. She was being cruel. Lifting her eyes to him, she softens her voice.

“Vergil… Why won’t you speak to him? Or to Nero? Nero doesn’t say it, but he’s hurting because you keep ignoring him.”

His shoulders tensed, the angry wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens.

“This is a conversation I was hoping we would not have.”

“He’s a _good_ person, Vergil. He is so loved. If you only made an effort to know him, you’d be proud of who he is -”

“Don’t speak of that which you do not understand.”

She narrows her eyes in turn, lips tensed in anger.

“I know what it’s like to live with a hole inside you, wondering why you‘re not enough for your father to give a _shit_ about you!”

He observes her, gaze icy, his breath forced through his nostrils. Her cheeks burn from shame over how she raised her voice but she isn’t finished with him.

“Nero’s not going to wait forever. He deserves better, and you know it.”

“You don’t understand,” he hisses. “To have bonds - it weakens you. Nero will also know this to be true.”

He takes a step closer, close enough for her to sense the heat that emanates from him.

“Most humans will never know what it means to possess the kind of power he and I does. You live such feeble, fragile lives, bound by the shackles of your weakness…”

She lifts her chin to meet his gaze.

“If bonds weaken you, then what is _this_? These last two days, huh? What do they mean?”

He roams her body, like that day by the hangar. His breath fans her face.

“I wanted you. I wanted the rush of power from having you. I needed it.”

She pushes back the involuntary attraction that hits her like a rock, despite the tensed atmosphere. In only a matter of days, her body has grown accustomed to embracing him in want, not opposing him in antagonism. Her every cell screams out in hurt from the distance between them, but her brain silences the cry.

“You could have forced me.” She swallows, a faint wave of nausea swirling in her guts. “You did once. You took me, without consent, against my will. But you never _had_ me. You didn’t have anything of value. As Urizen, you thought of power as the ability to dominate. To use, or destroy things. V knew it was a way of losing everything that matters.”

She lifts her gaze to his, eyes blazing, spitting her words.

”You sat on your throne of blood, reigning over your empire of _dirt_ , more alone than ever.”

“V also wanted power,” he snarls in response.

“Yeah, he did. He wanted the power to right your wrongs. To fix what was broken. To change. He taught me power isn’t necessarily bad - power is our ability to act; to do good or bad. Nero and Dante use their power to help, to fix wrongs.”

She presses her lips together, facing the floor.

“Trapped inside Artemis, I was powerless. I couldn’t do anything. It was the most awful experience of my life.”

His icy stare burns her skin. He swallows. She refuses to let him look away.

“When V climbed on top of Urizen that day on top of the Qliphoth, I was so afraid. But he did it knowing you would emerge with his memories intact.”

She pauses, confused by her own realization.

“He wanted to save you.”

“I do not need _salvation_ , Mary.”

She holds his gaze.

“You know what I think? I think you’re afraid. You’re afraid because the more you exercised power as you understand it, the more you found yourself to be lost.”

Anger is good. Anger prevents the hurt from surfacing and exposing her raw emotions to him. Her animosity melts into pain even so. Despite her best effort not to cry, her voice breaks.

“I don’t understand. Why me? If you only wanted for someone to submit to you, there are literally millions of other women more beautiful and stronger than me -”

He takes a step forward and cups her face in his hands.

“You’re wrong. You are the most beautiful thing that exists in this pitiful world. Ever since I saw you climbing the Temen-Ni-Gru in pursuit of your father, I’ve admired you. I learned afterwards that you placed a bullet in his head… You were strong. You _are_ strong.”

She shakes her head.

“Killing my father didn’t make me strong, Vergil, it - broke me. It broke me in ways I didn’t know I could break.”

“Yet, if you had the choice to do it again...”

Her mind goes numb. The memory of her father, twisted into that monstrous being, overwhelms her. His lies, the sacrifices of those he deemed inferior, his manipulations. He was a man void of care for anything but himself, his will to gain power. Her hand on the firearm never trembled. She didn’t squeeze the trigger out of a wish for revenge. She did it thinking of all the people he would continue to hurt if she let him go, of all the people he would continue to kill.

“I would.”

“That’s why you are strong.”

She breaks free from the grasp of his hands.

“Do you know why I loved V? I know it sounds ridiculous, but I did. Because he cared. He wanted me to heal, not because it would bind me to him, but because he - he cared for me; for my sanity, my health.”

She clenches her jaw.

“It’s called compassion, look it up.”

He observes her, eyes narrowed. She squares her shoulders, refusing to reveal the tears that sting her eyes.

“You want me to give myself to you so you can feel powerful. Not because you care. That’s why I… I can’t do this.”

He breathes hard, chest heaving and jaw tensing. The muscle under his eye twitches again.

“You’re right. At first, I cared only about having you. But having you meant that you had to submit willingly. When you were inside Artemis, I took, but you never gave. These last days, you have given, again and again. I thought it would be enough with those moments of might.”

“I have given you power over me,” she whispers. “The power to hurt me. I don’t know how it happened, I feel like it’s out of my control, but it isn’t. I’ve fallen for you.”

He reaches out to graze her hair. The gentle touch is awkward in this strained moment, they both sense it. He lets his hand sink.

“What does it mean? Is there -”

She steps from him, holding her arms around herself.

“I can’t let it mean anything. Falling for you means losing myself.”

“You are also afraid,” he growls in a controlled, low tone, “you fear how surrendering yourself sets you free.”

“I’m afraid of one thing.”

“Tell me.”

“Becoming my mother.”

They stay for a heartbeat, eyes interlocked.

“Please go,” she whispers and directs her gaze to the floor.

Jaw pulsing, he scrutinizes her face before he turns to leave. Hand on her door handle, he angles his head as if wishing to say something but remains silent.

With a squeak to the door as he closes it behind him, he leaves.

Wave after wave of icy pain washes over her. Her eyes sting, but she doesn’t cry.

Limbs trembling, she marches into her bedroom and gets dressed. The thought of staying in her apartment sends a wave of panic through her.

She ventures to the decomposing, withered stem of the Qliphoth. With a jump, she crosses the striped bands that mark the city’s police department’s attempt at keeping people out. Green Empusas are still nesting by the remains of the tree. At the first buzz hovering over her head, she aims the Glock-17 series she bought from Nico and squeezes the triggers. Green limbs and broken wings scatter over the asphalt.

She returns at night, cold and shivering from a shower of rain outside. The exertion from the day’s slaughter of demons should have her tired enough to sleep but the glaring emptiness of her apartment mocks her ambition. She pulls her wet hair from her face and leans her back against her bookshelf. A plastic cup falls from one of the shelves and spills a milky liquid onto the floor.

_Fuck._

She discards the rest of Dante’s melted strawberry sundae into her kitchen sink and cleans the mess. Returning to her living room, she pulls out a cd from her collection and inserts it into her stereo to drown the jarring silence.

She sits on her sofa. The smokey voice of Leonard Cohen fills her room.

_They ought to give my heart a medal_  
_For letting go of you_  
_When I turned my back on the devil_  
_Turned my back on the angel too_

Wrapping her arms around her legs, she leans her head onto her knees, and cries.

*

When she returns to the office the next morning, Dante greets her from his desk with a teasing smile. His smirk melts at the sight of her sleep-deprived, strained face.

“Hey. You ok?” He let his feet down on the floor from their position on the desk and searches for her gaze. “Trouble in paradise? Look, I hope I didn’t -”

“No, don’t worry, you didn’t… It was a temporary thing. A one night stand.”

She swallows the lump of pain in her throat.

“Yeah?” He pushes from the desk and stands up to load his guns. “Then why do you look like you’ve sold the butter and lost the coin?”

She exhales in tired, low laughter.

“What kind of saying is that anyway?”

He snorts.

“I dunno. Mother always used it. I think it’s some kinda Scandinavian proverb. She had Norwegian heritage.”

“She did?” Lady whispers.

 _Is that why he took me to that restaurant_?

Dante pushes his Ebony and Ivory into the gunbelt on his hips with his characteristic, crooked smile.

“Yup. Let’s get going, Trish and Morrison are waiting for us by the restricted area by the old bridge.”

*

The day’s work comprises of weeding out a nest of green Empusas and gunning down a remaining, annoying fire bat. Lady leaves her companions earlier than usual. Dante raises an eyebrow, Trish frowns, arms crossed on her chest. They don’t stop her or try to ask where she’s going.

She ventures to the old part of the city, largely intact and unfazed by the sprawling Qliphoth roots. Her mother always laughed at the notion of “old” regarding anything in this country. Kalina Ann was born in Kraków, a city founded in the eleventh century. In comparison, the old parts of Red Grave were no more than 200 years old.

Despite it not being ancient, the old town had a rustique charm; cobblestoned pavements, narrow built houses with colourfully painted facades. The area is plastered with just the right amount of street art and posters not to be saccharine. She spent a lot of time in this part of town when she was back at Uni. Studying in one of the small cafés, she always wore a band t-shirt from the latest concert she had gone to.

Because of her previous, frequent visits, she knows there’s an antiquarian by the old synagogue. She has never set foot inside it. The name of the book shop is written in an elegant font forming an arch on the windows. It’s still open. The doorknob squeaks when she enters the store, a tiny bell tingling above her.

A young woman wearing the type of round glasses you’d expect on a shop assistant of a bookstore would have peeks her head up from behind a counter. Her freckled face is barely visible behind a stack of leather-bound tomes. The dry air is stale with the scent of dust and ink.

“Can I help you? I’m about to close.”

Lady shifts on her feet.

“Yeah, I was wondering if you have a Nordic section? Authors from Finland, Norway, those places.”

The shop assistant pushes her glasses across the bridge of her nose with a smile.

*

The next day, Lady and Trish retire to the shop after a gig by the port, waiting for Dante who was reporting back to Morrison. Scrunching her nose at a mouldy pizza carton behind the oxblood leather sofa, Lady stops by the fridge to grab a can of soda. Instead of opening the can, she holds it in the air, mind drifting.

Her brain keeps feeding her scenes from the days she spent with Vergil. The sensation of combing through his hair with her fingers. His closed-lipped, crooked smiles. The broad, muscular frame of his back. The way he pressed her against the glazed tiles of her shower, hot water flushing over their bodies...

Her brain is a cruel organ.

She swallows the lump in her throat, trying her best to ignore the hurt that lances through her.

She wasn’t the only one who surrendered. The memory of the surge of power seeing him lost in her still reverberates in her heart, strong enough to push the air out of her lungs.

Trish jumps from the desk and places her hands on her hips.

“Look, are you going to tell why you’re such a sullen, brooding mess? I -”

Dante slams the double ports to the office open. Both women jerk their heads at the noise and frown at his severe expression. It isn’t like Dante to clench his jaw and knit his eyebrows the way he does, marching into the room.

“We need to get to Nico’s van,” he says in a voice dry like paper, “Vergil’s tried to kill Nero.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the poem Song by William Blake.
> 
> I think of the DMC world as a parallel, similar universe to ours but in this fic I've placed the happenings of the games in our world. It was more enjoyable to write it that way. 
> 
> “Empire of dirt” is taken from the song Hurt by Nine Inch Nails, from the album The Downward Spiral (1994).
> 
> Leonard Cohen lyrics from the song On The Level, from the album You Want It Darker (2016). 
> 
> Eva having Scandinavian heritage and Kalina Ann being Polish are headcanons. Kalina is Polish for guelder rose.


	5. Such ends true lovers have

The one who loves must share the fate of the one who is loved.  
\- Michail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita (1967)

There’s a crack in everything  
That’s how the light gets in  
\- Leonard Cohen, Anthem  
From the album The Future (1992)

 

Tears of rage blur Lady’s eyesight. She clenches her muscles not to fall from the sharp turn of Morrison's car around a bend. Dante driving style matches that of Nico’s with the engine running with a roar and the wheels shrieking against the asphalt.

_How could he? How could he, howcouldhe -_

“We all knew this was coming,” Trish mutters from her position beside Lady in the backseat. She leans forward to place her hands on the fabric of the front seat where Dante’s holding on to the steering wheel. “He said it himself, on top of the Qliphoth. ‘Next time, I won’t lose’.”

“When it comes to the mind of my brother, I’ve never known much,” Dante sighs, visibly taken by the happening, “except for him being a murderous asshole, which I guess ‘trying to kill his own son’ is a great example of, so yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“I can’t believe this.” Lady pushes the words through gritted teeth, angrily wiping a tear from her face. Trish darts her a curious eye cast, frowning.

“Why are you taking this so hard? Oh, wait, this must be bringing up some difficult memories, huh?”

Lady swallows and presses her lips together, not contradicting Trish’s assumption her exasperation is triggered by the memory of her own father trying to kill her.

They reach Nico’s van, its body coloured by the spilled blue neon light of the Devil May Cry sign. They get out of the old silver Saab 9000 and slams the doors closed. The sound bounce against the walls of the surrounding buildings, startling a flock of jackdaws from a nearby tree.

“I’ll stay outside,” Trish announces as Dante places his hand on the door of the van, “too many people can’t fit in Nico’s van, anyway. Tell Nero I’m sorry.”

The yellow lamp with the red bands swings from the weight of their steps as they enter the van. The familiar smell of cigarettes greets them. Nico sits by the foldable table, elbows on her knees and a somber expression on her face, unusual for her. She nods at Lady and Dante and moves to the front seat.

Nero lies on the leather sofa, his long legs sticking out from the edge. He is covered by the same grey blanket that served as Lady’s wrapping a month ago. Back then, the fabric of the blanket wasn’t stained with rust-coloured streaks of blood. Nero’s lower lip is split and a bruise colour his cheek in purple. He groans.

“Hey kid,” Dante greets him in an unusually soft voice.

Nero peers at him in response.

“Hey, asshole.”

Dante snorts.

“You’re going to be ok.”

Lady sits by the folded table, a sigh of relief leaving her chest.

Nero gains a tensed expression, pushing himself up on his elbows with gritted teeth.

Lady stretches out her hand.

“No, stay. You need to rest. Kyrie’s incoming, Morrison’s fetching her in his police car.”

“Yeah, I know.” He directs his gaze to Dante. “What the fuck is wrong with him, huh?”

Lady fights the blush that rises on her cheeks, in vain.

“What happened?”

“He sneaked up on me while I was on a gig, with that creepy look on his face, you know which.”

Dante snorts again.

“He told me I needed to sever bonds, get strong and fulfil my fate. That kind of gibberish. I asked him what the fuck he was talking about and he said he wanted me to go with him to the underworld. I told him where he could shove the Yamato, and then he lunged at me. Kicked my ass. I kicked his too, though.”

With a groan, Nero flumps back onto the sofa, arm over his forehead. His Adam's apple bob in a strained gulp. The sight sends a flash of pain through Lady.

“He said I hadn’t learned enough from his book. I swear I’ll drill the thing through with Red Queen.”

“Sounds like Vergil alright,” Dante responds in an exhale.

He shakes his head and mutters, more to himself than to anyone else.

“Why does he want you to go to the underworld? We just got out of that shithole place, for crying out loud.”

Lady catches Nero’s gaze.

“Are you ok?”

He presses his lips together in a mix of vexation and hurt.

“Do you know what V said to me that day when I supported him up the Qliphoth to Urizen? That he only wanted to be protected and loved. But he was alone, so he had no choice but to survive. That really hit me. I thought maybe that side of him survived, you know? That maybe V -”

“Lived on inside him.”

Nero grits his teeth, eyes watering from angered tears.

“I hate him.”

Lady’s heart bleeds. It bleeds from how Nero lies; he doesn’t hate his father as much as he hates the way he hoped to find a way to love him. She knows hate. It numbs the soul, leaves you cold, uncaring. As long as Nero still hurts, he cares. As long as he cares...

She swallows a rush of heated bitterness. Vergil doesn’t deserve another chance with Nero.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re not the one who beat the shit out of me.”

“No. But I know what it’s like to have a father who abuses you.”

The door opens and Kyrie steps in, her large hazel eyes quivering from tears. Nero exhales her name. She runs past Lady to embrace him. Lady and Dante quietly leave to give the couple some privacy.

Outside, Dante, Trish and Nico stand by the car. Dante crosses his arms on his chest.

“Well, this was a shitshow.” He pushes his body from its position, leaning against the panel of the car and gestures to the women around him.

“Anyone wants pizza? I’ll order some to the shop.”

“You’re not going to chase Vergil down?”

Dante smirks at Lady’s question.

“If my brother doesn’t want to be found, he has a way of staying hidden. Portal-opening ability, all that. Well!” He opens the door to the car. “You wanna join, Nico?”

“Yup. Nero’s in good hands now.”

Nico climbs into the car, revealing the colourful tortoiseshell butterfly tattooed onto the small of her back.

“I’d like to stay.”

Lady’s colleagues send her curious glances. She tenses her jaw at the skepticism in their eyes.

Dante shrugs.

“Fine. Suit yourself.”

The Saab vanishes in a cloud of exhaust, leaving a patch of oil on the asphalt and a faint smell of sulphur hanging in the air. A discarded newspaper dances in the wind over the street with a dry rustle. Above the silhouettes of the brick residential buildings towering over her, the summer sun still burns bright and warms Lady’s skin. The distinct shade of orange to the light is the only sign of the hours getting late.

The headache that settles in her temples threatens to crack her skull. She’s not sure why she insisted on staying by the van but a part of it relates to a bitter sense of guilty conscience. She still hasn’t told anyone about her affair with Vergil and it eats at her.

When the sun sets behind the rooftops, Kyrie opens the door to the van with a faint creak and steps out. She pulls her cardigan tighter around her.

“Hey, you’re Lady, right? I saw you through the window. Why are you still here? Are you ok?”

Lady suppresses a sound of unbelievability. She’s heard a lot about Kyrie, how she is the sweetest, kindest girl on earth, angel-like and unselfish. More like a caricature than an actual person... Asking Lady if she is ok when Lady’s the one that should be asking her that very question - the rumors of her kindness were correct.

Still worried Kyrie might be salty with her for being naked in Nero’s arms after he cut her out of Artemis, no matter how absurd that would be. Lady shifts on her feet.

“I’m not the one whose boyfriend nearly got sliced in two by his own father.”

“Nero’s going to be ok.” Kyrie smiles with a tired twitch to her lips. “He heals fast. Plus, he’s not alone. He’s got people to look after him; you, me, Nico, Trish, and Dante.”

Lady sighs. The involuntary image of Vergil, alone in some God-knows-where dimension, sends a wave of pain through her. It cuts like the blade of the Yamato. A question burns her tongue, she shouldn’t ask, but the impulse is too strong.

“Kyrie, can I ask you something - personal? Are there ever times when you doubt being with Nero is a... good idea? How do you cope with the fact that he risks his life every day?”

Kyrie lifts her eyebrows in surprise.

“No, I never doubt it. Sure, I’m always afraid something will happen to him, and I mean - I did witness him laying in a pool of blood once, his arm ripped off. But I can’t control who he is or try to stop him doing what he does best. What kind of person would that make me?”

She observes Lady with her kind, hazel eyes for a few heartbeats, scrutinizing her as if searching for her intent.

“Are you really asking whether if I’m afraid of what it means to be with a man who has a demonic heritage?”

Lady gapes. _I am so transparent_.

Kyrie’s inquisitive expression melts into an affectionate smile.

“You know, when Nero and I grew up together, he would sometimes drive me crazy. He was such a - punk, always up to some mischief. When he wasn’t watching, I rolled my eyes at him more times than I could count.”

Lady snorts.

“But I never doubted that to his core, Nero is a kind and caring person. Him being part demon doesn’t change that fact. That’s why I never question whether I should be with him because he makes me proud of myself for loving him. I may lose him, and that frightens me, but what’s the alternative? Not being with him?”

Kyrie makes a sound that tells of how absurd she finds the question to be. She leans her back against the van. A warm breeze teases the red tresses of her hair.

“Also, he makes me feel loved. I don’t know what I would do without that support, and it’s so… freeing to need him, and to be needed.”

Lady goes numb. Her blood flows slower in her veins. She opens her lips, finding her voice is hoarse from emotion.

“I just can’t imagine what it must be like to have the kind of power Nero has, knowing it could be used in all the wrong ways, the only thing stopping him being his will not to do evil…”

“That’s all you need, right?” Kyrie smiles. “How are we humans different? We have the power to hurt others every day, but most of us don’t, because we don’t want to.”

*

On her way home to her apartment, Lady ambles the moist sidewalk, hands in her jacket and eyes fastened to the ground. She mulls over Kyrie's words. They have rasped a wound in her, but she is not sure the hurt is bad. Oblivious of her surroundings, she stumbles when a hooded young man bumps into her shoulder.

“Hey -”

“Wallet, lady. No screaming.”

Holding on to her arm, the boy raises a serrated pocket knife to her face with a trembling hand. The high pitch of his voice, breaking like glass, tells her he is younger than she first thought. Perhaps as young as Patty...

She pushes away the impulse to roll her eyes. _This kid is in a pickle_. In a fluid motion, she grabs his wrist and punches at the bend of his arm, holding the knife at a safe distance. Carefully not to push too hard to accidentally hurt him, she places him before her on the ground, boot on his stomach. He falls with a whimper, large brown eye staring at her.

“Look, I won’t call the cops. I know you think fast money is the solution to your problems. But -”

Too late does she realize her mistake. He darts his gaze to the side of her face. For a fraction of a second, Lady tenses, expecting the blow from the person standing behind her. She can take a cut to the arm, perhaps even to the shoulder. A knife between her ribs will be another matter.

The air reverberates by the shing of a blade. At first, the sensation of something landing on her neck has her believing the other, unknown thug has sliced her below her hairline. To her surprise, a body slumps to the ground beside her, blood squirting from a perfect cut at the shoulders. The severed head of another thug rolls a few feet further away.

The boy below her hollers and screams like a mad man. She turns.

The Yamato lifted, Vergil looms like a god of vengeance, tensing his muscles to drive his blade through the robber on the ground.

“No!”

Lady flings her arm to his chest, stopping him mid-motion.

“He’s just a kid!”

The hooded boy scrambles to his feet and flees, sobbing, holding on to his low cut baggy jeans not to fall.

Lips parted and palm still planted onto his chest, Lady stares at Vergil. He rests equally still like her.

He looks like shit. His swept-back hair lies dull and flat against his head and the dark strands under his eyes have deepened to purple bows. Deep wrinkles she hasn’t noticed before creases his forehead and a cut to his eyebrow glistens with small beads of blood.

With a swift motion, he re-sheats the Yamato and leaves in long strides. She sprints to catch up to him, wiping the blood from the other thug from her neck in a shudder.

“Don’t you dare run away from me!”

As if he had wings, Vergil jumps the wall of the nearby building and over a tall, brick wall, landing on the other side.

“Oh no, you don’t.”

Lady jumps a nearby dustbin, the clang startling a stray cat, and heaves onto the edge of the wall. She falls onto the pavement behind it and catches a glimpse of his coat, hems billowing behind him, as he enters the open doors of a garage.

She sprints after him, heartbeat like a drum in her chest. She half expects him to have vanished inside and curses, but to her stupefaction, he rests by the other side of the empty workshop, illuminated by a falling light from a dirty window. The air is filled with the smell of rust and engine oil.

“Why, Vergil?”

She strides towards in long steps until reaches him. Unable to stop herself, she clenches her fists and strikes them into his chest.

“How could you? How could you try to kill your own son?” Although the wrath blazes through her eyes, her anger stems from nothing but pain and hurt.

“You _monster_.”

“I never intended to kill Nero,” Vergil growls, hands grasping her wrists, “I wanted another test of his strength - to see if he could kill me. He is as big of a fool as Dante, does not understand his own significance. Arrogant, proud, a hothead. He needs to learn, to get strong.”

“You think beating the shit out of him will do that?”

He smiles in a way that chills her.

“It was a matter of honour. I would not expect a human to understand.”

She breaks free from him with a tug.

“You’re goddamn right I don’t.”

Staring at him, his towering build and proud stature despite the obvious signs that he also took a good beating, a nauseous wave flows through her at the contrast to how he appeared to her two days ago. Is this man in front of her the same person that fit so awkwardly into her rooms but matched her body so perfectly?

Still, a part of her wants nothing but to embrace him, and that impulse sickens her.

“At least he managed to beat you up pretty good, for what I can see.”

If her unsophisticated attempt at hurting him succeeds, he doesn’t show it with more than a slight tense to his jaw.

“He is strong. His power is like nothing I have seen before, but he is not yet strong enough.”

“Strong enough for what?”

He takes a step, turning his side to her with an expression of hesitancy as if making up his mind whether he should speak to her. The light falls on his face in a pattern of shadows that mercilessly accentuates his handsome cheekbones and full lips.

Her pride falters. Unable to control her impulse to reach out to him, she pleads.

“Vergil, please talk to me.”

“Strong enough to kill me. When he is, Nero might be able to defeat the Dark Lord.”

“What are you talking about?” She whispers, heart transformed into a lump of ice.

“When we last met - all those years ago inside the Temen-Ni-Gru, I fell down into hell and met a powerful demon. He was the one who ordered the attack on our estate and killed our mother. He calls himself Mundus. My father once defeated him and sealed him into the Netherworld.”

“The demon that created Trish?” she exhales.

He takes a step forward and extends his hand in a plea for her to listen. To understand?

“Yes. All my life, I have seen it as my duty, as the son of Sparda, to kill Mundus. My brother has never embraced this responsibility, not to the full, and it has caused a chasm between us. I have always resented him for it. Instead of embracing his demonic heritage, he has squandered his chance at justice by remaining in this world, even calling himself by another name. I was alone in what should have been our common calling.”

He gazes upon the floor, the wrinkle between his eyes deepening.

“Instead of defeating Mundus, I was made into his minion. For years, I lived as a slave to his will. Powerless.”

Lady’s fingers go numb. She forgets to breathe. Like her, he lived as a shell, controlled by the whim of another?

“I escaped, but I was dying. Only through using the power of Nero’s arm and through separating my human and demonic side could I survive. Now… I need to act. I believe Nero can become strong enough to defeat Mundus. But he needs to embrace his demonic side. This human life he lives will squander his strength. His bond to that girl is a risk; Mundus will use his love for her against him.”

Lady’s head spins. It’s too much to take in.

“You can’t ask him to kill you. There must be another way.”

“Again, you speak of things you don’t understand.”

“You forget that Nero’s lived as a human his whole life and still has become this strong! His bonds, his love for Kyrie - even for you - is part of that strength.”

An icy wave of distrust flushes through her. She can’t be so naive as to trust his words…

“You say you wish to stop Mundus, but how can we be sure that you don’t want more power? That you want nothing but revenge and a way to rule the underworld yourself?”

“Is that so wrong? I wish to revenge the demon that killed my mother. Might control everything, and without it, you can’t protect anything. I wanted the power to control the underworld and stop Mundus.”

“Is that why you ate the Qliphoth fruit?”

“Yes. Without it, I could never match his might.”

“And by eating that fruit, you became the exact thing you wanted to defeat.”

He clenches the fist around the Yamato. His chest heaves in a deep breath.

“Separating my human and demonic halves only served to give me the power to control, to destroy, never to change things. It corrupted me. It seems I can only exist as this split being, two opposing parts in one body.”

Her mouth falls open from surprise. This is the closest he has come to admit his wrongs. Another realization has her heart aching until it cracks. If he doesn’t wish for Nero to love Kyrie, he must not wish to expose himself to vulnerability by loving her.

It isn’t fair that her heart breaks at the thought. It isn’t fair that only at that moment when she faces his rejection does she acknowledge how much she would have wanted to be loved by him.

“You might be right about the remaining threat from the underworld,” she says, willing her voice not to tremble, “but you’re wrong about Nero, about how to deal with Mundus. Alone is not strong. Death is not the answer.”

“A human way to reason.”

She faces him with her best attempt to an unfazed gaze before she turns to walk away.

“I wouldn’t expect a demon to understand.”

*

The next day’s gig turns out to be a nightmare. Trish and Lady are sent to deal with an Empusa Queen, while Dante deals with a remaining Behemoth by the docks. The colossal, mantis-like demon gives them a tough fight, summoning her children in droves. When they gun her down, Lady’s body aches.

Ten years ago, she could kill demons for days on end without losing stamina. All it took was eight hours for her joints to crack and hurt these days.

_Perhaps I should think about what I want to do when I’m too old for this grind._

It doesn’t help that her thoughts keep wandering to her conversation - if you could call it that - with Vergil the other day. She’s been filled with anger all day, using it when fighting the insectoid demons, but a nagging realisation creeps up on her. She’s angry with herself. Why does she have a guilty conscience? What the hell has she done wrong?

“Hey. I want you to talk to me.”

Lady casts a surprised gaze to Trish.

“About what?”

“I know the guy you spend those days with when you called in sick was Vergil. I’m not asking you to explain or make excuses, I just want us to talk. It’s clearly hurting you.”

Lady sinks the Kalina Ann, gaping. A mix of panic and bewilderment hits her like a cannonball to the chest.

“How did you..?”

Trish rolls her eyes. A glint of sun falls through the specks of cloud above and glitter in her blonde tresses.

“Because unlike Dante, I’m not an oblivious blockhead in these matters. I had my suspicions when you told us you’d fought Vergil and survived.”

A skittering sound approaches. Without breaking eye contact, Trish lifts her Ombra and blasts a Red Empusa by her side into smithereens.

“It’s natural that you’d be confused about Vergil after what happened between you and V. As he emerged with V’s memories, he must have been equally confused.”

Lady sighs and places a hand on her heated forehead.

“Trish, I’m sorry I -”

“I said I don’t want you to make excuses. What happened between you? And why aren’t you together? I bet if you were, you wouldn’t be sulking twenty-four hours a day.”

“Why aren’t we - he’s a demon! He was Urizen! He abused Nero, he wants nothing but power…”

“Nothing but power, huh? Did he make you feel good? Did he ask questions about you? Did he seem sorry that you parted? Did he make you come?”

“Trish!”

“I’m serious. If your answer to all those questions is ‘yes’, then he cares. Look, I know you’re not the bigot you once was, but sometimes when you talk about demons, you sound so condescending. You keep forgetting that three of your best friends are demons, in some form.”

Lady’s jaw drops to the floor. Her whole being goes numb from stupefaction.

Trish eyes her, hands on her hips.

“I’m not saying I’m Vergil’s biggest fan. Do you know why I didn’t emerge from Cavaliere Nero with the same trauma as you did? Inside, a spark of my mind remained, and that spark felt him. How fucking pathetic he was, sitting on that throne, gaining nothing. I knew Dante would slice me out at any time and that he would defeat Urizen.”

To Lady’s surprise, Trish steps forward to grasp her arms.

“If Vergil emerged from Urizen, with the capacity to care, perhaps even love, then that’s - it might stop this cycle of pain and revenge.”

She winks with a smile.

“You didn’t think I was a romantic, did you?”

Another skittering is heard. Lady unhooks a grenade from her belt and tosses it into the three Empusas running towards them. The screeching insects explode in a cloud of smoke, limbs, and mucus.

Both demon hunters crouch on the ground, faces turned to avoid the blast. Their ears ring for a moment from the impact. A patch of green slime lands on Lady’s arm; she wipes it away.

“Vergil claims he wants to return to the netherworld and defeat Mundus. It’s why he ate the Qliphoth fruit. To be powerful enough to defeat him.”

Trish gains a sudden pallor. She sits in the dust and rubble on the ground with her lips parted in a harsh breath.

“That’s a name I hoped I would never hear again.”

Lady sits beside her, scrutinizing Trish’s face with a knot of worry in her guts. The blonde jerks her head to the side to whisk her hair from her face.

“Do you know why Mundus created me to look like Dante’s and Vergil’s mother? He doesn’t gain power by acting on our fears but on our desires. He knew the brothers could never kill me, and as long as I was in his control, that gave him power over them.”

Lady extends a hand and brushes Trish’s naked arm.

“There was a limit to his power. You broke free.”

Trish stares into the floor, lips drawn back in a painful expression.

“Vergil is right. Mundus may come back to the human world, and when he does, the people we love will our greatest strength and our greatest weakness.”

“Vergil believes alone is strong.”

“Why don’t you prove him wrong?”

Lady closes her eyes and groans, hands over her face.

“I - I can’t make the same mistake as my mother.”

Trish narrows her eyes.

“So you live your life ruled by that one fear. Isn’t that a mistake of its own?”

*

That night, he comes to her in her dream. Placing her ankles on his shoulders with a firm hand, he drives into her in that unhurried pace that has her mind reeling and her body flaming with want. Doing it like this, he reaches so deep in her, like he’s brushing her very core. Breathing hard, he sinks his gaze to where their bodies meet with a mesmerized expression. She reaches to touch his lips with the tips of her fingers. He exhales in a groan. The sound sends a wave of goosebumps on her skin, she closes her eyes in bliss.

A blue light appears behind her lids. The sensation of his hands on her changes, from soft heat to an intense, cool physicality. She opens her eyes from her state of bliss and blinks into the face of his demonic form.

It doesn’t scare her. The blue flames of his eyes shine in a different light than from his normal icy irises, but he is still with her. It’s still Vergil, enframing her, towering over her not in a will to hurt but in a will to be seen.

She wakes, heart pounding, her hand rising to her throat.

Wiping the fresh sheen of sweat from her temple, she wraps the bed linen she uses as cover around her body and steps into her kitchenette to make a cup of tea. She won’t get any more sleep this night.

Sitting in her sofa, enveloped by the sound of the wind against the glass panes of her window and the occasional passing steps of a night wanderer, she allows herself to think about Vergil. The memory of the dream sends a lustful shiver down her arms. She takes a sip of the hot tea to match the heat of her skin on her insides.

In what ways weren’t Vergil like her father? As a child, Vergil lost a loved one. Her father grew up cosseted and spoilt, and lost his family in an accident she is certain he arranged. Her father wanted power for power’s sake, so did Vergil, when he lost his human side. Her father treated others as pawns, Vergil wants his son to reach his true potential, no matter how wrong his methods are. Her father killed her mother without remorse, Vergil has fought his brother out of a sense of betrayal and loss. She has seen evil in the eye and it wasn’t the white-haired man that shared her bed.

_Why do I want Dante and Vergil to reconcile?_

To save the world from a potential threat?

The thought of that day when the brothers were children, attacked and separated by a demon army, resurfaces to her mind again and has her aching.

To heal her own broken heart?

She doesn’t want Vergil to hurt. Everything might be lost between them, the idea of him being alone still eats at her heart. His belief that his only way to redemption is through death equally chills her.

_Am I not doing his mistake? To believe alone is strong? What do I have to lose by denying that I want him? That I - love him?_

A loose thread in her mind weaves into coherent thought. When the pattern appears, it has her forgetting to breathe. The reason for her guilty conscience -

During her conversation with Vergil, what irked her most was his attitude to Nero. He wishes for his son to become a stronger version than himself, for Nero to fulfil the destiny he could not. Nero deserves to be accepted and loved for who he is, not for his potential in becoming like his father. Through her understanding of Vergil’s human side as his chance for salvation, is she not guilty of the same crime?

_Sometimes when you talk about demons, you sound so condescending._

She places her teacup onto the table with a faint cling. Above her hangs her Spanish guitar on its hook; she reaches out to graze the nylon strings. The vibrating notes linger in the air.

_To not live ruled by fear..._

Placing her head against the pillow of the sofa, she makes a decision. First of all, she needs to stop hiding her secrets.

*

She picks an opportunity when he’s alone in the shop.

Dante leans over his pool table, aiming the cue stick at the white ball, about to break the triangle. The Eye Of The Tiger plays from his jukebox and an empty pizza carton, black olives carefully weeded out, rests on the desk. He nods with a crooked smile when she enters.

“Hey, Lady!”

“Hey, Dante.”

She stops and emits a small, embarrassed laugh.

“Actually, I… I’m thinking about calling myself Mary again. I’ve let my father define that name for me for too long. I thought that, by renouncing the name he gave me, I could cut the bonds to him, but I’m tired of how it only served to bind me to him... through hate. ”

He raises his eyebrows in an expression of surprise.

“Really? Well, ok then. Mary.”

She steps forwards and fidgets with the blue chalk to his cue.

“I’ve investigated the possibility to change my surname to my mother’s maiden name, but because she was nobility, it’s turned out to be an administrative nightmare.” She blushes. “I need to prove my bloodline to be allowed to claim her name…”

“She was _what_?” Dante leans against the pool table and crosses his arms on his chest with a wide grin. “Does that mean you’re loaded? Can you borrow me some more money, _your grace_?”

With a snicker, he skillfully dodges her attempt to whack him in the head.

“No, it doesn’t mean I’m loaded, my great-grandparents were from the Russian part of Ukraine and lost their fortune in the revolution.”

“Uh-huh.” He nods like he doesn’t believe a word of her claim to be broke.

Mary laughs, but a knot slowly tightens in her guts.

_I have to tell him._

A cold rush running through her, she opens her mouth in a great inhale.

“Dante, I need to talk to you about something. You know that day you came to my place to check on me… That guy I was with -” She has a sensation of stepping out from a cliff into an abyss, “- it was Vergil.”

Tossing the black number eight in his hand, Dante catches the billiard ball and freezes in the motion. He stares at her, eyes narrowed in incredulity for so long she fears he’s had a heart attack. To her surprise, he throws his head back in a burst of laughter.

“Vergil?” He exhales, “as in my broody, cold-shouldered, stuck-up, high-and-mighty, ‘I need more power’- brother? Gosh, who knew he was such a ladies’ man?”

Her blush grows a shade darker from each of the offensive adjectives he spouts. He opens his arms to underline his disbelief.

“Lady - I mean Mary. He was responsible for the Qliphoth. He put you inside that demon.”

“I know,” she croaks and walks over to the jukebox to stop the wailing sound of Axl Rose singing about The Paradise City, “he did all those things. But - he was also V.”

He shakes his head, the grey tresses of his hair whisking in front of his eyes.

“I should have seen this coming. I knew your fling with V was a huge mistake.”

“You don’t understand!” Her heart rate quickens. “First of all, V... saved me. Artemis stole my humanity from me, he gave it back. No - he helped me understand she could never take it in the first place. I would have gone mad if it wasn’t for him.”

She takes a step towards him, lifting her hands in a pleading gesture.

“When Vergil started showing up, my feelings for V were still there. It was so confusing, and I -”

“Wait, what do you mean ‘started showing up’? You mean you met him several times?”

She closes her eyes and hangs her head down in shame.

“Yes.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mary.” Dante eyes her without spite, his usual taunting smile gone. The sight clenches at her heart. “What, do you - love him, or something?”

“I… Yes, I think so.”

He heaves his chest in a sigh. The note of disappointment in his voice claws at her.

“If you’re trying to find the human in him, then you’re more naive than I thought.”

She lifts her gaze to his.

“It’s not that simple. I know he isn’t human, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any humanity. Dante, he’s your brother. Don’t you love him? Don’t you wish you could find a way to... stop trying to kill each other?”

“Yeah, of course! But it’s difficult to bury the hatchet with to someone who tries to turn you into a needle cushion every time you’re within ten feet from each other!”

They shut their mouths, staring at each other. Mary needs to control her breath, but a warm sensation of steadfastness fills her.

“Vergil told me of his years as enslaved by Mundus. He fears this world is never safe as long as he is alive. Dante, if he’s right, we need to work together to stop him from attacking the human world again. Vergil believes Nero might be the only one who can fight Mundus but he also believes alone is strong. I’m afraid that he’ll taunt Nero into killing him to prepare Nero for worse action.”

Dante stares at her, processing her words.

“You’re saying Vergil wants to help this world? Forgive me if I have trouble believing this.”

“I think you know he’s right.”

Dante crosses his arms on his chest, the leather on his jacket groans. All his usual mirth and spite have vanished.

“Of course I want to reconcile with my stupid brother. As kids, we always fought because he wanted us both to embrace our father’s heritage and become like him. I never saw my father as a role model. He used to beat up Vergil pretty bad. Said he did it to make him stronger.”

The blood leaves Mary’s head in a rush at his words.

“Your father abused you?”

“Yeah, mostly Vergil since I always ran from him. Vergil just… took it. I think he believed our father would love him if he proved himself to be strong.”

Mary sighs and shakes her head, eyes closed in incredulity.

“I need to find him. Talk to him, even if it’s useless, or if it’s for the last time.”

“You know I will kill him - or at least do my best - if he tries to attack me or Nero again.”

“Yes.”

Dante reaches for the pool table to toss the eight ball into the corner. It clashes with the other balls in a clatter.

“You think you _can_ find him?”

“I have an idea of where he might be.” She sends him a smile.

“Well,” he sighs, “jackpot.”

*

By a popular petition, the city park was one of the first areas in the city to be renovated and reconstructed. The uprooted trees are replaced by flowering magnolias and gardenias. Grass-covered lawns and flowerbeds bloom instead of the scraps of concrete and metal flung from the onslaught of the root system of the demon tree. Willows parade by the newly dredged pond, their delicate leaves hanging over the glittering waters. Families of canards swim under their plumes and a glistening green dragonfly buzz above a white water lily.

The mansion by the pond still missed parts of its roof, but the Qliphoth root that penetrated its western walls no longer jutted towards the sky. She climbs the marble stairs, hand on the round, wooden railing, illuminated by the dots of the still hanging crystal lamp. The clouds that amass on the horizon are tinged by a golden seam at their edges.

He stands in the parlour with the fishbone parquet, holding his hands on his back, the Yamato in his grasp. The painting of the water lilies is gone, as is the mattress.

He turns. His injury by the eyebrow has healed, the dark strands under his eyes diminished. A gust of wind catches the back-slicked tresses of his hair and plays in the fabric of his collar.

“Why have you come, Mary?”

“I wanted to give you something.” She holds a hardcover book in her hand with a black and white picture of a young woman in a 1920’s bob, slick against the contours of her face.

“I thought, maybe since you’re into Scandinavian food and cinema, you might like Scandinavian poetry too.”

With a frown that speaks of his confusion, he takes the book in his hand and scrutinizes the cover.

“Karin Boy?”

“The girl at the book shop told me her name is pronounced ‘Boy-e’.”

He opens the book at the page where she has placed a red ribbon to indicate a certain poem.

“Man’s multiplicity.”

We were born of mothers of heaven and earth  
and of powers with no end in view,  
nocturnal wills and wills of light  
with names that no one knew.  
May one of the many  
not gain power over us,  
though she be of heaven’s race  
and shine in magnificence.  
In us a multiplicity lives.  
It fumbles towards unity.  
Its capturing, gathering burning-glass  
we were born to be,  
Great is man’s striving,  
great the goals it has set -  
but much greater is man himself  
with roots in universal night.  
So give, that we shield a secret room  
and never a flame do lack  
on the altar of an unknown god,  
that may tomorrow wake.

He stares at the page, the characteristic wrinkle between his eyebrows deepening to a crease. The air stills. His face conveys no emotion, apart from the way his nostrils flare.

“Thank you.” His voice is thick.

She takes a step closer.

“Vergil...”

“Have you come for the human in me, Mary? I still don’t need salvation. And I can’t put you in danger by caring for me.”

He shakes his head.

“I can’t be with you, as you can’t be with me.”

“Is that really what you want?” She swallows the last word, heart threatening to slide out of her sleeve and crash onto the floor.

“What did you expect?” He smiles a crooked smile full of sadness and cocks his head. “From this? A white picket fence? Family dinners? Vacations by the sea?”

She clenches her jaw at the jaded tone of his voice.

“Maybe not - that.” She snorts softly. “I always wanted a cat, though.”

“You knew this would never work.”

“I know - shit, Vergil!” She exhales, ”that’s what life is! You have no guarantees, no control, and it’s fucking scary. But I know one thing. As long as you continue to try, there’s always hope. My father said _one_ thing that I believe in. If there’s a will, there’s a way. Some things in life are hard. It doesn’t mean they’re not worth it.”

He examines her face for several heartbeats with a strained expression. His next words catch her unprepared.

“I should have been the one who killed your father. I shouldn’t have left that burden on you.”

“You couldn’t,” she whispers, a weight pressuring her lungs to make it hard to breathe, “you fell into the realms of the underworld.”

“Before that. It should have been me. Even then, I wasn't powerful enough.”

She is filled with a light sensation to her chest. His words are the last piece of evidence of his capacity to care she needs.

“Don’t place that burden on Nero”, she pleads, heart pounding, “stay with me. We’ll find a way to defeat Mundus together.”

“I will never risk your life in the pursuit of him.”

“If you think I’ll let you go after him alone, you’re wrong.”

He smiles with such sadness again, it freezes her heart.

“For a short while, I entertained the thought of staying in this world, with you. I thought, that by having you, my hurt would be gone. That this split inside would heal. But it hasn’t. Even during those days when we were together, and I found a happiness I hadn’t felt before, I still couldn’t find ways to live with myself, like myself.”

She laughs, a short exhale through the thick tears in her throat.

“You idiot. That’s because I can’t be everything for you. I can’t be your mother. I can’t be your son. And I can’t be your brother. That ache inside you, it’s your wish to reconcile with Dante. It’s your loss for Eva. It’s your will to find a way to play a role in Nero’s life, but not knowing how. To have bonds makes you vulnerable, open to hurt and loss, but it’s also the only thing that makes us strong. You believe it’s all lost, so you hide your anguish behind your wrath.”

He scrutinizes her, eyes narrowed to slits. A warm breeze envelops them in a scent of roses from the garden below.

“Is it not? Is not all lost? Tell me, Mary.”

“You can never escape the hurt from your mother’s death. I know that. But you can find ways to live with it. To accept it. Whether it’s too late to reconcile with Dante and Nero… I don’t know. But I know you have to try. Even if you fail, you have to try.”

His gaze softens. Her heart cramps at the sight.

“And you?” He asks, voice low, “Is not everything lost between us?”

She takes a moment’s pause, choosing her words carefully.

“I need to know that you are willing to right past wrongs. That you are brave enough to learn from them. My mother loved a monster, hoping he would change. She closed her eyes for all the atrocities he committed. It broke her, and it killed her. I need to know, that by loving you, I’m not hurting myself.”

She takes a deep breath for her most important words.

“Nero deserves to be loved in his own right, as the person he is, not the person you expect him to be. Don’t do that to him. Accept him, and love him for who he is. If you can reach out to your family and try to fix the wrongs you’ve committed, then… no. Not everything’s lost.”

She steps forward. The parquet beneath her creaks. His hands shake as she takes it in hers.

“Talk to Dante. To Nero. If you want to… I’ll go with you. You don’t have to be alone.”

His gaze plunges into hers like an icy well.

“You know that what you’re offering is a double-edged sword.”

“Yes.”

She smiles, letting her thumb graze the back on his hand.

“Do you remember my favourite Leonard Cohen song?”

_We’ve been alone too long_   
_Let’s be alone together_   
_Let’s see if we’re that strong_   
_While we’re waiting_   
_waiting for the miracle to come_

He gains expression of pain, shaking his head.

“I will always be split into two halves. The demon side of me… it’s never going away.”

“I don’t want it to. It’s what makes you - you.”

“I don’t know how to reconcile my halves. I don’t know how to live - to be a person.”

“We’ll find a way. I’ll help you. Dante - he’ll help you. Trish also, and Nero, I know they will. You are not alone.”

His breaths whisk from his nostrils, the relief that emanates from his so strong it’s palpable. His fingers interweave with hers. He lets the Yamato fall with a clang to the floor so he can lift his hand and caress her cheek. Smiling that tight-lipped, crooked smile, he has her heart melting like Dante’s strawberry sundae.

“Hey,” she whispers, “did I tell you I named my song? _A Heaven in Hell’s Despair_.”

*

They are half undressed before she slams the door to her apartment shut. He presses her against the wooden frame, palming her behind and lifting her to let her wrap her legs around his hips. Their kisses are desperate, sloppy. He carries her through the living room to her bed, his mouth leaving marks on her neck. She surrenders, driven by an instinct of accommodating his need to let go, for her to take it. They can make love later, this is not an act of care, but of brutal confirmation: they are.

He tears her shirt apart and rips her briefs from her hips. Returning to her mouth, he pulls at the studs of his vest in an impatient tug. She pants, helping him with clumsy hands, heart pounding and fingers trembling. She fumbles with the fly to his trousers. Opening her thighs, she prepares for the first thrust inside her, aching for it to happen. It doesn't. He leans his head into the crook of her neck, motionless apart from how his chest heaves against her stomach.

To her stupefaction, a grating sob emerges from his throat. Everything inside her stills. The surprise ringing in her melts into a soft flow of compassion. She embraces his shoulders and aligns her body for them to lay comfortable, trapped into each other but not merged.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, “for everything -”

“I forgive you,” she whispers, swallowing hard. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.”

He shudders in another harsh breath, cooling the skin on her neck with a droplet of salt. She strokes his hair and whispers against his temple.

“We’re going to be ok.”

*

A week later, they stand on the sidewalk facing Dante’s shop. The lit sign of his business name spills a crimson, occasionally flickering light on the bricks of the building. Inside are Dante and Nero, waiting. They have reluctantly agreed to meet Vergil, on condition it happens entirely on Nero’s terms.

Vergil’s hand is clammy in hers.

She lifts her gaze to him. About to speak, she silences when Dante sticks his long-haired, grey head out of the port.

“Verge! You brooding asshole, get in here!”

The ports shut with a bang.

Mary snorts. Vergil frowns, but a smile twitches the corners of his mouth. He takes a deep breath.

“Will you wait for me?”

“Yeah. Nico has her van parked by the pizza place. I’ll be there.”

He turns to her with a crooked smile.

“Are you nervous about going back to uni tomorrow?”

“It’s that visible, huh?”

“Don’t be. You’re going to revolutionize our understanding of crop-fungi symbiosis.”

“That’s the plan.”

She exhales in an equally uneasy and exhilarated, small laugh.

He squeezes her hand.

“If you wish, I could - accompany you to campus in the morning. I’ll buy you an espresso.”

“I’d like that.”

He lets go of her hand. She observes him crossing the street with a sensation of witnessing something profound. If he handles what he is about to do with care, theirs is not the only love story budding.

He opens the heavy port to the shop, steps inside, and closes it behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic title from the poem The Clod And The Pebble by William Blake.
> 
> Chapter title from the poem Song, also by William Blake.
> 
> My divination for the plot of DMC6 is that Mundus will return as the main antagonist. I hope we get to play as Vergil!
> 
> Arkham having a cosseted childhood and killing his family, Kalina Ann being nobility, Sparda being abusive to his sons - all headcanons. 
> 
> I believe Vergil would have liked the Swedish poet Karin Boye. You can find some of her poems translated into English [here](https://www.karinboye.se/verk/dikter/dikter-en.shtml). 
> 
> Leonard Cohen lyrics from Waiting For The Miracle, from the album The Future (1992).
> 
> Writing this fic, I’ve been inspired by several Reylo fics, another ship that explores what it means to fall in love with a “monster”. You can find most of these in my bookmarks if you are interested. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read, kudos’d, commented on and bookmarked this fic! <3
> 
> If you wish, you can find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/namesonboats) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/namesonboats).


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